


Portière

by strawberry_cider



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, Caretaking, Character Study, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, gratuitous descriptions of interior design, sort of idk man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_cider/pseuds/strawberry_cider
Summary: Jon finds a castle in the woods and can no longer find his way out.
Relationships: Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 18
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the lovely people on discord that I chatted with about this fic, this is for you 💕❤️❤️❤️💕💕

It was a tall, Gothic castle, hidden among the pine trees. Jonathan _knew_ for certain there was no castle in the woods by his village. He's been through the forest before many times, under happier circumstances. He would have seen it, it was huge! It couldn't have popped up over-night out of nowhere. He decided to worry about that later and ran towards it.

It was pitch-black, like the trees and shrubbery all around him. Nobody was home. It would make good shelter until the rain stops and he might move in it completely. That is, if it is truly abandoned. He had to make that gamble at the moment. The rain was falling down in sheets and he was soaked to the bone. It was dark and loud, the wind blew the rain into him as if it was trying to topple him over. Lightning was flashing too close to him than he'd like and thunder boomed right above him. He had no idea where he was, only that he was deep in the forest, far away from civilization. He felt his way through the trees rather than by sight. Only vaguely did he notice that the shape of the castle's roofs were different than that of the woods. For all he knew, it wasn't a castle at all, just more trees.

Jon saw it was indeed a castle when he found a gated yard. He couldn't stop his teeth from clattering as he quickly walked around it, searching for an opening. He found it in the form of a tree fallen a long time ago over the forged-iron fence, bending it down enough for him to climb over. Jon made his way to the dark wall that was the castle. He could vaguely see the shapes of dark windows and elaborate bass-reliefs. He spotted a large oak door inside of a decorative alcove and he immediately ran to it, stepping through ankle-deep puddles.

He stopped in the alcove and rested against the door, panting and shivering. He was going to freeze at this rate. He straightened up and tried the handle. The metal wasn't as old and battered by time as the fence in the walls. It didn't register to Jon in the moment. The door opened with ease and he went inside, leaving the door open.

There wasn't light outside and even less inside. Jon blinked a few times, breathing deeply and trembling. He was in an entrance hall. There were closets and hangers and cupboards. Jon felt a little bad for soaking the carpet with his rainwater. He was about to open the closets, hoping that somehow there was at least a dry coat inside, when a door across the hall opened. Jon jumped as though burnt with hot iron, ready to bolt out the door.

“Who's there?” A male voice called out.

“I-I'm so sorry!” Jon said, trying to see if manners will work with it. “I'm lost, I found the castle and ran for cover. I-I'll leave if you don't want me here!”

The possessor of the voice stepped forward. Jon sighed in relief. It was a man, like him. He was tall and lithe, and around his own age. He was light-haired and he was looking at Jon with eyes wide in surprise and confusion. He was wearing simple house clothes, but much fancier than anything Jon ever wore in his life.

“I'm so sorry, Sir.” Jon repeated, deciding against saying that he thought the man's castle was abandoned. “I'll leave, I'm sorry for intruding on your property.”

“Leave on such a weather?” The man said. “No way, I can't allow it. Please come in.”

He stepped closer and touched Jon's arm.

“You poor thing, what were you even doing outside on such a storm?” He asked.

“It's... It's a long story...”

“Do come in. You'll freeze to death, we must get you warmed up.”

Jon followed his host through the high-ceiling and elegant corridor. He supposed they were, it was too dark to see details properly. His host walked side by side by him. The corridor seemingly went straight-ahead through the castle. Jon didn't notice the lack of windows or the sparse number of doors they were passing. He walked fast, his wet clothes and coat dragging him down. His bones ached so much. He felt sleepy and it worried him. That's a symptom of something he couldn't think about at the moment. His mind felt like it was going numb too from the chill.

“We're almost there.” The man said. When he didn't hear a response, he asked Jon for his name.

“Jonathan, Sir.” He replied. “What is your name?”

“I am Michael.” He said with a smile. “You needn't call me 'Sir'.”

“All right... Sorry for dragging water all around your home.”

“Oh, that's the last thing you should worry about!”

Michael walked in front of him to aportière covering a door-less entrance. The curtain depicted a waterfall among trees and stones covered in moss. The leaves and the moss and the pebbles and the flying sparrows blended into one-another. There was so much going on around the clear blue of the water, it was a little dizzying to look at. Michael pulled it to the side and held it for Jon to pass through. His wet boots made a different sound on the tiled floor.

Michael quickly lit a few candles. The bathroom was marble white, with tiles on the floor and every wall, except for the ceiling. In the light of the candles it was yellow and orange, like a fresh loaf of bread. Jon's stomach growled. Near the door was a small bench, next to a stack of towels. The toilet was also white and so was the sink. Above the sink there was only the mirror, a very tall one. On either side of the mirror was an alcove with shelves of bottles and cups. The bathtub had claw-feet and next to it was a terracotta stove, dark brown and silver. The little door to where the wood was put to burn had a lion roaring. Michael scrambled to heat water for the bath. The sound of it pouring and boiling mixed with the constant patter on the walls and roofs from outside.

Jon sat on a bench without thinking. He couldn't feel his legs. He jumped again when Michael touched his shoulder. Michael looked concerned. There was something else in his eyes. Curiosity? Disbelief? What, was he so rich we never saw a miserable person before? Michael said something, but Jon couldn't catch it. He really wanted to sleep.

“What?” He said.

“Can I touch you?” Michael said. Jon was very confused, until he realised Michael was reaching to take his wet coat off.

“Oh.” Jon said after a moment and reached to do it himself. His hand was shaking so bad Michael gently pushed it back down and started to work on unbuttoning his coat and shirt. Michael's hands were pretty big and immaculate, with long and slender pianist fingers. Jon realised he was staring and awkwardly looked away. “I-I'll do it myself.” He said when all that was left were his pants.

The hot water was a gift from Heaven. Jon would have liked to lie in it completely. It almost made him forget he was in the nude in front of a complete stranger. Still, he sat with his knees to his chest and his chin over them. Michael gathered water from the tub and poured it over his shoulders and hair. Jon needn't look at him to know he was looking at his scars.

“Jonathan, I have a question.” He said.

“Shoot.” Jon mumbled.

“How did you find my castle?”

It was not the question Jon expected.

“I, uh, I saw it. In the distance.”

“In the distance...” Michael repeated quietly, as if Jon just said something unbelievable.

“Y-Yeah... I was surprised too. I didn't know there was a castle here.”

“You _are_ quite lost in the woods.” Michael said, laughing softly. “The nearest village is quite a way away. Are you from there?”

“...No.” Jon said.

The soap smelled like roses and byzantine spices. It made him lazy. Michael's fingers slipped in his hair and scratched his scalp, tugging at knots and rubbing his temples. Jon was tilting to the side and his arms slipped down to his sides.

“Don't fall asleep.” Michael laughed in his ear and Jon blushed. “There will be a bed for you in a moment.”

Michael touched the little curling hairs on the nape of his neck and pulled at them, watching them bounce back in shape and stick to his skin. Beneath them started the vast array of Jon's scars. Each looked painful in a different, equally unpleasant way. By all means, Jon should be dead. Michael hated how he could tell what did what and how many of them there were. He even had some on his face and his neck, across important veins. His right hand up and past his wrist looked as though he stuck it in an oven.

Jon fought with his own eyes to remain open. During one of the times he forced them back open, he thought he saw something in the water, next to his own reflection. It was Michael, it couldn't have been anyone else, but he looked... wrong. Jon instinctively raised his hand from the water and messed up the reflection. When the water stilled, Michael looked normal. Jon sighed. It was strange, the situation he was in, but that didn't mean something was indeed happening. Before he could let his hand in the water again, Michael reached for it and took it in his own. His thumb rubbed over the tight and reddened skin. Jon couldn't possibly close his fist properly or move his fingers too much.

“You poor thing...” Michael repeated against Jon's shoulder.

He resumed washing him and Jon resumed his pose. His eyelids won in the end he allowed them to stay closed. After a moment he inhaled deeply and opened his eyes with a bit of a start. He felt drowsy and wasn’t completely sure what was going on. It felt like he slipped out of existence for a second. Michael was pouring water on him, rinsing him off. It wasn't as hot anymore.

“Did you fall asleep?” He asked, smiling. “I’d let you sleep, but the water’s getting cold. Let’s get you dry.”

Jon got out of the tub and sat on the bench again. He was immediately covered in big and plush towels. He couldn't help smiling as he was snuggled dry. Michael quickly went past the portière to fetch him a shirt and pants before the cold got to him again. Dressed, he pulled the curtain again for Jon to walk past. It led to a bedroom. Wasn't there supposed to be a hallway? Jon's eyes fell on the bed and made a beeline to it faster than reason could reach him. He was so tired and still warm from the bath. The bed was large and soft like a cloud. His clean skin felt so good against the silk and cotton. Jon sank into the mattress and the pillows, he felt boneless. He felt Michael pull the blanket over him and heard him laugh at him as Jon dosed off almost instantly.

The village was dark and the smell of burning and rot and shit stung at his nose. He looked into a broken window and saw more darkness. Had he stuck his hand inside, it would have swallowed it.

He continued walking instead. He saw ants on the ground, making an orderly line to a corpse where they were eating and collecting off of. Through his mind passed the scene in Gulliver's travels he read and snickered at as a child.

He kept walking and the main street filled with fog. He heard children wailing for their parents, blinding looking for them. He heard soldiers cry in anger, charging through it to their unseen death. He saw someone sitting still in the fog, looking down and not making a sound. He tried to reach them, but the fog didn't allow it. The more he walked through it the more distance it put between them. He called out, but no answer.

The fog was cleared by a gust of ice-cold wind. It was suddenly winter. People were frozen in place on the ground where they dropped dead, skin as blue as the day sky. The dents in their starved ribs and cheeks were filled with snow. A child was eating one of them together with the crows and other scavengers. The child hissed at him like a stray cat, as though thinking he would want to steal their meal.

He kept walking and stopped to look at the church. The doors were broken down and the stained glass windows shattered. Inside, in front of the altar, someone hanged themselves by the feet of the large, golden crucifix statue on the wall. People surrounded the dead, on their knees underneath them. He couldn't tell if they were crying or laughing or singing.

He kept walking, up the hill and past run-down houses, decaying and falling under their own weight. A mother, skin and bones, was trying her breast-feed her crying baby, while another one lay dead next to them. All that came out her teat was blood.

He looked away towards the end of the road and saw the she-wolf in the distance. He turned the other way to run. He heard her growl and pant behind him, catching up to him without breaking a sweat. He took as sharp turn into an alley, where rats scurried out of the way, carrying in their mouths scraps of bread, coins and ripped-off ears. He came into the centre of the village, where a puppet show was on display. Children were laughing to tears and with hiccups as a puppeteer was making one doll rip apart the other's body. The puppeteer looked up and she smiled as him, lips curling up too much and breaking the skin. The puppet cursed him in a familiar voice.

He kept running, past a bar where a music and screaming came from and past the priest's house, that was ablaze. To his horror, he reached a dead end. He went to run back and find another way, but the she-wolf jumped on him and pinned him to the ground. Each time she looked worse, less human. Now she looked like a grotesque hybrid between a man and a wolf, face elongated to fit the many sharp teeth and fur growing in patches here and there.

He prepared himself to feel the well-known pain in his neck, when something else happened. It was not him who had his neck ripped apart, but hers. A knife darted from behind her and slit her throat. Blood sprayed onto him and stung his eyes, but he was not hurt. He blinked it away and saw not one knife, but five. Then ten. Then...

Jon woke up with a start, clutching at his heart. He was drenched his sweat and his eyes ran about their sockets. He closed them and took a deep breath, sinking back in the soft, oh so soft bed. His heart eventually calmed down. He opened his eyes and furrowed his brows. Why was his dream different? What was that thing? Jon rubbed his face and sighed.

He looked around the room he was in. It was spacious. It had a large window, a door and a curtain with a waterfall over a door-less entrance. There was his bed, large and with an olive green canopy, a dark wooden writing desk with a chair, a bookshelf, a short table with two light green armchairs, a fireplace and a deep brown armoire. The walls were cream with a yellow and mustard coloured, swirling pattern. The window was big and had a bench in front of it taped with golden-embroidered pillows. It was still raining, the glass was dotted with raindrops and the sky was grey. The pitter-patter was ever-present. Only the tips of the trees were visible. His room was very high off the ground. Jon couldn't recall walking any stairs. The previous night was a blur and so was the previous day before the rain. A mess of running away and feeling cold and tired and scared. He dreaded going to sleep, even if that was normal. Now he felt baffled.

The door opened and a blond man walked in.

“Michael!” Jon remembered, out-loud.

“Good morning, Jon!” He said, smiling. His skin was pale and his hair was curly and blond, the same shade as the patterns on the walls. His eyebrows and his eyelashes were blond too. He had a plain but amiable face and some of his curls got in the way of it. Jon couldn't tell if his eyes were blue or green. ~~Why was he looking at his eyes so much? Stop it!~~ He was wearing a simple shirt and black pants, but the shirt was thoroughly embroidered with complicated interconnecting lines and spirals, in white thread.

He sat on the bed next to Jon and Jon sat up against the bed-frame. “I brought you milk! And I put honey in it.” He gave him the mug. The heat of the ceramic numbed his fingers a little. The steam blocked his vision for a bit, but the milk was hot and sweet and brought his senses back to life as it went down. He downed half of the mug and set it in his lap. He was still wrapped in the silk blanket, only his feet peeping out from the bottom of it. He glanced at Michael glanced at him and quickly looked away. Jon felt embarrassed by how much attention he was being given.

“Did you sleep well?” Michael asked.

“Yes.” Jon lied.

“How are you feeling?”

“I'm good!”

“Do you feel sick, or light-headed, or _disoriented_ , or...”

“N-No, I'm fine.” Jon said. Michael looked surprised again. Jon furrowed his brows again, but quickly changed the subject. “Thank you so much for your kindness, Michael. I don't know what would have happened to me otherwise. I'll be off you back and leave shortly.”

Michael's smile faltered. “But it's still raining, Jon. Please at least wait until it's over.”

“I will.”

“I don't want you going back out there after the state you showed up yesterday. If I were you, I'd remain here. F-For a while, I mean.” He laughed.

“Don't worry!” Jon laughed back. “I'm in no hurry to end up like yesterday again.” He said and sighed, looking at his half-empty mug, still steaming.

“Yes, it is quite dangerous in the woods all by yourself.” Michael said, looking at the stained window. “You don't know what might happen. For all you know, you'll encounter a bear. Or a wolf.” His eyes drifted towards Jon. Jon was looking at the mug with a severe expression. They stood in silence for a moment. Jon wasn't sure what Michael was waiting for.

“Jon, please drink all of it.” He said.

He hesitated for a bit, but then brought the mug to his lips. He drank all of it, except for a thin white layer on the bottom. Michael happily took the mug and put it on the night-stand. He got up and clapped his hands. “Well, then! Let's find you some clothes!”

He opened the armoire with a theatrical move. Inside were many shirts and vests and coats and pants, in dozens of colours. They were a little too gaudy for Jon's taste. Michael's shirts and pants worked as pyjamas, but they were too big for him to wear during the day. Michael seemed a little too amused by that. Eventually they found a smaller shirt, plain white and with a little green embroidery over the collar and shoulders, and tighter, taupe pants. Michael tied a chartreuse cravat around his neck. Jon caught himself staring at his hands again and he looked away, trying to be more subtle this time.

The inside of the armoire's doors had mirrors in them. Jon watched Michael tie it in it. Michael's head was turned down and his hair covered his face in the reflection. Jon thought for a moment that Michael's hands looked paler and his fingers longer, when Michael announced “Done!” and patted down Jon's chest.

“O-Oh! Thank you!” Jon said.

“You look wonderful!”

“T-Thanks!”

“Let's go eat breakfast.”

The hallway outside the door was opulent. The wooden floors were covered in thick carpets, light with maroon and crimson roses around the edges. The walls were covered in white wallpaper with a golden twisting vines pattern. Here and there were pomegranates and camellias dyed blood-red, black birds birds with spread wings, yellow and blue feathers and tails curling in on themselves, green butterflies with punctured wings. Every few meters there was a drawing of a stag having it's horns caught in the vines, or a peacock in flight with vines between the feathers of its tail, or a fish with vines reaching for its fins and gills.

There were windows every few meters as well, but they were opaque with raindrops and the sky was still very much grey. Every few meters there were also doors, the same as to Jon's designated bedroom – light brown wood with elaborate but nonsensical carvings. More than doors there were other portières, leading to door-less door-frames, leading to rooms Jon could only guess. One of the curtains depicted a dressing-room in a similarly grand castle. Four women, each in luxuriant dresses in blue, pink, green and orange, were fussing around, making the room look like it had been hit by a tornado. Fabric in every colour imaginable, jewellery, shoes, scarves, corsets, flowers, cookies – all of them were on the floor or still mid-air. One woman was doing her makeup, legs crossed and feet up on the vanity. Another was chugging a bottle of expensive red wine, staining her dress. Another was lying on the floor, stuffing her face with cakes and the last was making her hair, taller and taller, with stranger and stranger ornaments. Jon was pretty sure he saw a live pigeon in there. Another curtain was a medieval party, with a barn atop a table, playing the lute like his life depended on it. Around the table were circles within circles of people merrily dancing, wearing vibrant red and blue and green. Around them were trees decorated with ribbons and haphazardly-thrown paper lanterns.

Jon and Michael walked for a few minutes through the hallway, side by side and in silence, as Jon was gawking at every detail. Not even the church at home was so beautiful and golden. Thinking about home his mood soured and Michael noticed it.

“What would you like to eat?” He asked, catching his attention.

“Uh, anything, really.” Jon said. “You needn't worry too much for me.”

“Oh, it's not a worry. I enjoy being your host!”

Jon smiled, then cleared his throat.

“I hope I'm not a worry for you family either. I wouldn't want to get you in trouble for bringing in some rando in the middle of the night.” Jon said and realised he hadn't met with anyone else the whole time they've been walking. He could excuse that at night, but-

“There's no worry there either, Jon.” Michael cut off his thoughts. “I am the only one who lives here.”

“All by yourself?” Jon said, turning his head towards him.

Michael hummed in agreement.

“All by yourself in such a huge castle?”

“It's not _that_ big!”

“We've been walking in a straight line for, like, 10 minutes.”

“Is that a lot?”

Jon wasn't sure how to answer to that.

They came across another portière and Michael walked towards this one seemingly at random. It depicted the scene from the Aeneid of Aeneas going into the underworld with the aid of the witch. The top half of the curtains was the world of the living at night, the full moon high in the sky, and the bottom half was the cave descending into the underworld, a light blue from the end of a tunnel mirroring the moon above. Behind it was a staircase. The carpet there was red and the walls were plain white.

They descended one level – Jon didn't know how to peek without being noticed, but the staircase went lower at least another one. They walked through another hallways that was very much the same, but instead of gold the vines were copper and there were more flowers in various shapes. Jon saw lilies, carnations, roses, peonies and daisies. He shook his head before the memory of her wormed in his head. He shook it again.

The next portière was a still-life painting of a table full of fruits and vegetables in wonderful shades of red, yellow, orange and green. They were so-well embroidered, they looked as though you could simply reach and pick one. The spheres of oranges, clementines, peaches, gourds, pumpkins, tomatoes, apples and potatoes merged into one another in a complex optical illusion. It took a moment to tell apart one from the other. Michael opened the way for Jon to walk inside the dining room. There was one central table with a chair on each end and a very pretty candleholder in the middle. On the wall opposite to the portière was a normal double-door. Jon took a seat at one end of the table, while Michael excused himself and walked through the doors. They swung back and forth behind him a few times.

Jon took the opportunity to look around. The walls were teal and there were a few small paintings of forests and glades. The curtain looked the same on the opposite side, just backwards. There was one large window and it showed that it was still raining, if not harder. He looked down at the table. It was smooth and lacquered. It felt nice to run his hand over it. The rings of the tree and the circles in the bark where a branch used to be were still visible. Jon's eyes traced them over and over, drifting to another then another. He was startled when Michael placed a plate in front of him. How long had he been doing it?

The food was... not bad. Just all sorts of textured and spiced and weird. Jon made himself eat as much of it as he could as to not look rude. He ate a lot of bread to bear through it.

“So, Michael,” Jon started, “how did you come in possession of such a grand castle all for yourself?”

Michael looked down at his food, thoughtful. “It's a long story.”

“I see...” Jon said after a moment.

“I'll try to explain it to you one day, if you wish. I'd also love to learn how you got so lost in the woods.”

“I, uh, _yes_. I will tell you as well.”

Michael smiled and continued eating.

“It must get boring in such a big place all alone.” Jon said.

“It does. But I do have guests sometimes. Some are even planned!”

“Do you not have any servants either?”

“I had at some point. But I can manage the castle by myself quite well. Keeping servants would be a caprice.”

“That's quite impressive. I don't think I could handle it alone. When I was little I would have given anything to have such a home. I find it marvellous.”

Michael was quiet. “It's not perfect either.”

“And what do you do all day?” Jon continued.

Michael hummed. “Not much.” He thought some more. “I walk a lot.”

“Hmm.” Jon said, continuing to eat. ~~This is getting weird.~~

They ate in silence for a while. Michael was picking at his food. Now that Jon noticed, he wasn't really eating his food. He ate a few bites then just pushed it around his plate. Oh God, did he make it awkward with all the questions about being alone? ~~How did he fuck up so fast?~~

Michael looked up and saw Jon with his mouth stuffed. He puffed out a laugh and tried to cover it with his hand, catching Jon's attention.

“What do you like to do, Jon?” He asked.

“I like reading.” He said after chewing quickly and swallowing.

“Oh! Do you, now?” Michael said, brightening up. “What do you like to read?”

“Anything I can get my hands on, really.” Jon smiled and shrugged.

Michael got up from the table, his hair bouncing along with him.

“Let me show you my library!”

They went back the way they came to Jon's bedroom and then went down the hallway in the opposite direction. After a while there was a sharp turn to the left. Michael opened the first door they came across, a reddish dark brown with a golden knob. The library was the biggest and tallest room Jon ever saw, bigger than a ballroom, reaching into the next floor above. It was covered from wall to wall with books, rows and rows of shelves packed to the brim and it had a flight of stairs inside it, leading to an upper terrace with even more books. The shelves on the “ground-floor” formed labyrinths. It had wide tables with many chairs, like in college libraries, and several more secluded areas, with two armchairs by a coffee table or a big and cosy sofa. Everything was in the colours of autumn, orange, brown, brass and gold, an atmosphere of warmth and peace like the fireplace in a snowy evening.

Jon's jaw dropped and his eyes glittered. It was more breath-taking than anything Michael excitedly described to him on the way there. His hands itched and legs itched to explore and look at everything, grab everything. Michael watched him smiling with a smile of his own.

He didn’t know where to look first, what to do first. He felt like a child. His eyes shot from one row of shelves to the other. Everything was so new and so much better than what he could ever have expected. He almost forgot Michael was there. He read the names on the volumes he passed. The wall he was currently walking past was the English one, the authors, some of which he knew, some of which he didn’t. About an even mix.

The deeper he went, the less he could hear the rain outside. It was blissfully silent. He came across a light-blue armchair. He looked at the walls around it and picked a volume he never heard of before, curious and excited. The cover was out of calf leather and the title was written on the spine in faded gold letters. Very faintly it could be read “Ex Altiora”. Jon got himself comfortable in the armchair and opened it. He couldn't re-read books he had already read. It was a physical pain. He couldn't get past two well-known words without losing focus and wishing he was doing something else. Finding new authors and new books was always a joy for him. If the book was entertaining enough, he’d become absorbed in it and forget all around him, even himself, the story rolling in his mind like a theatre play. He wouldn’t feel hunger or thirst or sadness or anger, he would momentarily pause existence. It was something akin to sleep, the kind of sleep in which all is dark and all feelings are so numb it is as if he is floating in a void, as if he is dead. It is the most wonderful and relaxing of feelings, a feeling of peace, of tranquillity.

He gasped when Michael put a hand on his shoulder. They smiled and apologized for the little spook.

“Are you having fun?” He asked.

“Oh, yes!” Jon said. His legs at some point went beneath him on the armchair, slippers discarded on the carpet before him. Jon glanced at a window nearby and saw the sky was inky blue and the light from Michael's candle made the raindrops look orange. He looked back down at the book. He was on the last two pages. Has he spent all day reading? And in the dark too?

Jon felt Michael put his hand on his cheek and stroke his cheekbone with his thumb.

“Your eyes are bloodshot.” He said, with a fake scolding tone while smiling.

“Yeah...” Jon said, smiling back.

“You should go to bed.”

“All right...”

The way back to Jon's bedroom shorter than to the dining room. Michael retrieved Jon's designated pyjamas and held the curtain to the bathroom up for him to change and get ready. Jon looked at himself in the sink mirror. God, he looked like a mess. His hair was black and his skin was brown, but the scars made it reddish in some places and almost white in others. He looked like freaking Frankenstein's patchwork monster. His angular face didn't help his case. The now bloodshot eyes even less so. He was honestly surprised Michael let him in his house when he was not clean and lucid. Jon washed his eyes with cold water in an attempt to soothe them.

The portière did not reach all the way to the ground and if someone was walking around, their feet were visible. As Jon went towards it, Michael cleared the way for him. Jon was not so tired as to need to be tucked in, he did it himself was Michael made his way towards the door.

“Good night, Jon!” He said, smiling sweetly.

“Good night!” Jon said from his soft pillows and blankets. Michael's candle disappeared behind the door and Jon closed his eyes.

The dream was different again. He was not in the village anymore. He was in the castle.

They were dark and windowless. The walls were sickly yellow and the vines shifted as he walked. They changed colour from black to magenta to green to purple without his notice. There were no fruits of flowers or birds or whatever, but people, their silhouettes trapped in beneath the wallpaper, chocked by the spirals. Here and there were claw marks and ripped wallpaper, someone taking out their anger on it and revealing the stone underneath. There was no way out.

There were no doors or portières, but paintings of the same hallway. There were no stairs or turns, the hallway went on and on forever. The ending was no visible, imperceptibly turning to the left, making a spiral of its own. Was there a centre to it? How long would he have to walk. He wouldn't have much else to look at but spirals. He didn't know if he liked it or not.

He came across a hallway branching out in a different direction. He walked inside it and when he turned his head, he seemed to have been switched around. This hallway was now the one going on and on.

He continued walking. He found another branching path and tried it as well. Now the hallway was imperceptibly going to the right instead. He started to suspect that no matter how far he will walk, there will never be a centre. The hallway will keep spiralling into itself. He continued walking anyway. The yellow wallpaper was dizzying to look at.

He got the idea to try walking back the way he came. He turned around to do so and hit his nose against something hard. He took a step back. He did not know what he was looking at it. His eyes could not register it, could not understand it. It was ever-shifting, spirals curling into a parody of a human body, a wide smile with too many teeth looking down on him, eyes with scribbles of irises and pupils grinning at him, hands _so wrong_ reaching for his face.

Jon shot up in bed, screaming. He looked around panicked, not remembering where he was for a second. The sun was rising outside the window, giving the sky colour.

Jon panted and his mind slowly cleared.

This is bad. He needs to leave _now_.

Jon got out of bed and quickly put on the clothes he wore yesterday. Jesus fucking Christ, can't he have one good thing happening in his life? Does everything have to monstrous?

He opened the door to his room and peeked outside. The castle was dead quiet. He closed the door behind him and made his way to the portière with Aeneas. He thought along he way about how foolish he had been. Everything made sense now, all the strange things, Michael being alone. Admittedly, Michael did not try to kill him. Yet. It was best to leave before anything bad happened. Too many bad things already took place and for the perhaps the first time he had an upper hand.

Jon slowed down in his march. Maybe he should tell Michael he is leaving. Again, Michael was only good towards him so far. His nightmares tended to make what happened much worse than it was. It was still bad, but in the dreams they were exaggerated and twisted, symbolical almost. Michael was good. Nothing ever even tried to help him before. He hadn't had an ally in a long time.

No. He will leave. He must be careful. ~~Look where trusting people got him~~. He must take care of himself. He will leave and... figure it out. It was early in the morning. He had time to find his way out of the woods before sunset. He can do this. It will be fine.

He'll miss Michael. This is by far the most fascinating one yet. God, he'll miss that library. But he can live without them. ~~He's used to missing people.~~ With proper clothes and a clear mind, he'll fare better. He'll find work in another town then go further and further away. ~~Isn't that how this started in the first place?~~ He'll go to another country of necessary. He'll start a new life away from all of this. ~~Oh, so he will just forget everything he did to everyone?~~ Shut up. ~~He will run away, assume a new identity and pretend nothing ever happened?~~ What else is he supposed to do? ~~Figure something out and undo everything somehow. There has to be some magic or eldritch bullshit that will fix everything he did.~~ It was not his fault. It's too late to do anything. There was nothing he could have done. ~~Maybe, but he didn't try to stop it either.~~ He couldn't. ~~How does he know that? For all he knows, all of that could have been prevented and he wouldn't have done any of it. He wouldn't have caused any of it.~~ It was _not_ his fault. ~~For all he know they could have all survived, they could have lived full lives, they could have at least ran away with him, they wouldn't have suffered for~~ ~~ _nothing_~~ ~~. But they did.~~ ~~ _All_~~ ~~because of him.~~ Shut up shut up shut up shut up _shut up_

Jon _s_ topped in his tracks. On the wall where the windows were there was a portière. It was not there yesterday. There was no sense in it being there, it would have led to a significant drop. Jon felt cold sweat run down his back. It depicted a white cherry tree on a field with blue grass and a crimson sky. Petals rain down on the ground, mimicking the clouds on the sky.

He slowly walked towards it and reached to pull it open. It shocked him how heavy it was. It felt like a wall in its own right. He used both hands and then his torso to push it to the side. Through gritted teeth he looked at the room inside. It was a drawing room, plain and unassuming. Jon let the curtain fall with a heave and looked down the hallway where he knew there should have been Aeneas. It was not there.

Jon ran back to his bedroom. He sighed in relief to see it was still there. He thought for a moment then went to the library. It was also where he knew it to be. He looked down the library's hallway and went down it. It ended abruptly in a door. The knob turned and it began to open. Jon bolted back to the hallway of his bedroom. It was changed again. The door to his bedroom was where he knew it, but the windows and the doors switched walls. He heard footsteps coming towards the turn and he continued running. This is bad, this is so bad. His heart pounded in his ears. He didn't see where he was running, he just ran.

When he stopped running, he put his hands on his knees and took big gasps of air. His chest was burning and it hurt to breathe. When it returned to normal and his vision wasn’t blurry, he straightened up and looked around. He was in a hallway. Obviously. It was quite narrow, only one person fitting it at a time. The walls were a cream-white with white vines and the floor was covered in a dark brown or maroon carpet. Behind Jon was a door slammed shut, at one end of the hallway, and at the opposite side in front of him was the next door. To his left until the next next were four doors, dark, nearly black wood, and with golden handles. To his right were two large windows, with a view of the outside. The sky was as dark as night and the glass was covered in raindrops that were mercilessly attacking it and everything below. The storm was in full swing again. The sky and everything around turned completely white for a second. Two second later a thunder exploded in the sky, right above the castle, shaking the glass in it’s frames and threatening to break the roofs off with sound alone. Jon covered his ears and waited for the rumble to stop.

When it stopped, he looked at the four doors, but didn't open them. He put an ear to one of them, but no sound came from there either. Jon straightened up and sighed, his chest still hurting. In his frenzy to run as far away as possible, he got himself lost. His memory of the past few minutes was a blur of stairs and many hallways like this one.

He walked to the windows and tried to look at the street below, but there was no use in that action. The rain made the windows opaque. He wasn't so mad yet as to try to jump out the window, but he did try to open it out of curiosity. It did not budge. Either everything, including the curtains, was fortified, or he was just weak as hell. The latter wasn't implausible.

He walked to the other door at the end of the hallway and opened it, closing it behind him. Not at all to his surprise, there was another hallway, turning to the left. This one was much longer and the ceiling was taller. The doors were further apart. Jon walked past them. Around the middle of it, the hallway grew wider, in the shape of a hexagon. There were six doors, one on each wall. Jon walked away faster.

The end of the hallway was a staircase. Jon sighed and looked down the stairwell. He could not see the end. He started walking down it. The carpets were dark turquoise and the walls were a muted grey. He counted fourteen steps on each flight. After the fifth flight he came to a portière. It was the Aeneas one. He pushed it away enough to pass on the other side. The staircase had olive carpets and cream walls and it was going upwards, through the floor she just walked. He thought “Screw it” and went up them. Each flight was 10 steps. On the third he found a hallway. The walls were dusted yellow and the vines were bronze. By the staircase was a painting of a courtyard. The hallway had no windows or doors, then took a sharp turn to left. Jon walked to it and found three doors, then a dead end, all light brown. There were two paintings of woodland between them. He opened the first one and walked inside a hallway that would have cut through the other two ones. It has windows and a door where the third door would have opened. He opened and saw another hallway, with windows on either side. He closed and continued down the “main one”. The rain stopped and the sun was high in the sky. All Jon could see outside were trees, close enough to touch the walls and the glass.

He found no other door or turn for over half an hour. The castle couldn't have been so long. Nothing about this stupid place made sense. Jon changed his mind. It wasn't fascinating, it was a pain in the ass. He was tired and hungry and angry. He scratched his face and felt a stubble. Who knows for how long he had been wandering in reality. What hurt most was how aware he was of it all. It wasn't his mind playing tricks on him. He knew he was in the house of a monster. For all he knew the castle itself was a monster and it and Michael were in cahoots.

Finally, there was a turn. It led to a hallway with portières. Great!

They depicted scenes from the bible and mythology. Abraham sacrificing Isaac, Arthur catching Guinevere together with Lancelot, Psyche being taken away by the wind to Cupid, the birth of Venus, the Angel telling Mary about her pregnancy, Jael nailing Sisera's head to the ground, Achilles going on a rampage after Patroclus' death, Shantanu wooing Satyavati, the swan delivering love messages between Nala and Damayanti, the battle of Ragnarök, the killing of the innocents, Persephone descending to Hades at the arrival of winter, Jesus being taken off the cross and held by a weeping Mary.

Jon's attention was caught by one that did not depict anything. It was a plain, dark red curtain lines with yellow tassels. He pushed past it and found the hallway with copper vines. He saw the portière leading to the dining room and gasped in joy of seeing something familiar. He bolted down it, aiming for the Aeneas curtain he knew.

He reached it where he knew it would be and laughed victoriously, when it pulled open and Michael walked out. Jon could not stop himself in time and rammed straight into him. It felt like running into a wall. Michael was startled as well and he instinctively caught Jon in his arms.

“Jon?! Where have you been?” Michael said, sounding worried. “I looked for you everywhere! What happened?”

Jon panted and blabbered something, wide eyes quickly searching Michael's face. He looked genuinely concerned. But his eyes were brown today. Jon recognised in the curls of his hair the spirals in his nightmare. Fear kicked in again and his face twisted in panic. He has to get away, he-

Michael held him close and shushed him. “It's all right, it's all right. You'll be fine.” He pet Jon's hair that grew greasy. Jon's mouth opened and closed, trying to say something, then he closed his eyes and he took a few deep breaths. “There, much better...Oh, you must be so hungry. Please, please don't go off on your own like that.”

Jon nodded.

Michael sighed.

“Just then, you looked like you've seen a ghost.” He added and laughed more for himself. His smile up-close was toothy.

“Ahaha...” Jon forced out a smile that came out really shaky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon: (chuckles) I'm in danger


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started super self-indulgent, then it got sad really quick, oops  
> 

“Is everything all right, Jon?” Michael asked.

“Yes! Of course!” Jon said. “Everything is fine! All is good! Yeah!”

Jon needs to get out of here, he needs to do it _fast_.

He had been living together with Michael for a few days now. It had been raining on and off. “We live in Britain, after all.” Michael said. After Jon got lost in the castle, Michael gave him a half-ass-ed explanation about the castle's strange and shifting architecture. It _just seems to be like that_. _That's what it was like when he came in possession of it_. He himself got lost in it countless times, but with time he got the hang of it. He can predict most of it.

“So the times you walked me to the library and the dining room, you were just hoping to reach the right place?” Jon had asked.

“...Yes.” Michael had said, after a moment too long of hesitation.

Jon dropped it. The castle didn't make sense, of course Michael would make even less. He also pretended to be unaware of appearing in Jon's dreams. He acted so innocent all the time. Jon could already tell something bad was going to happen. But he's stuck in this castle until God knows when. Wonderful. Jon got out of a grave and fell in a well instead. Michael keeps him fed and makes sure he doesn't get lost anymore, but also constantly finds excuses to keep him in the castle. Not to mention the fact he keeps showing up in his dreams as a distorted monster. Jon had been spending the last nights wandering the hallways and stairs of the castle, without reaching any destination or finding anything new. Just more and more winding hallways and yellow wallpapers. Sometimes he finds his bedroom or the library in random places, but they look different. The furniture is arranged differently or it's the same room, but bigger or smaller. He bumps into Distorted Michael from time to time, and Michael will follow him around like a puppy. He tries to touch him. One time he took hold of Jon's hand and brought it to its lips. It felt so weird. The lines on his lips were... moving... in circles... Which fits with the rest of his overall theme but... Ugh.

During the day, Jon had been spending his time reading in the library or taking books to the bookshelf in his bedroom. It was nice, in all honesty. He didn't have any worry or responsibility. He had all the free time in the world to just do whatever he felt like doing, even nothing at all. Michael showed him drawing rooms where there were other, shorter books, drawing paper and pencils, canvases and paint, a ballroom with a piano and ceiling-high windows overlooking the courtyard sometimes and the forest other times. The food Michael was giving him started tasting better. And Michael was just a very nice host! He genuinely didn't seem to mean him any harm! He seemed perfectly content to share his castle with Jon and to just watch him, that too without any malice. Jon didn't feel exhausted anymore after sleeping. It was nice...

Jon finished eating his food and sighed. He mustn't get attached. It's rare to meet a monster that won't kill him, but it's for the best he leaves. ~~Nothing good ever lasts for him.~~

“I'm going to go to the library now.” Jon said with a smile.

“Jon...” Michael said after watching him get up from his seat.

“Yes?”

“Please tell me if something is bothering you. I want to be of help.”

“...I will!”

“Well... is there anything bothering you?”

Well, he was worried he was probably going to die!

“... All right.” Michael said. He didn't look convinced. “I'll bring you tea.” He smiled.

Jon felt himself grow pale. “Thanks...”

He left the dining room, slipping past the portière, and walked down the hallway with copper vines, up the staircase, down the hallway with golden vines, past his bedroom and took the turn to the library. Those remained the same. Jon suspected Michael was keeping them the same to prevent him from getting lost. He had his bed, his books and food – what else could he need!

He went inside the library and went to his blue armchair. He found a book called “The Bone-Turner's Tale”. It was kind of dumb, but entertaining enough. He opened it and resumed reading, but prickles of anxiety wouldn't leave him alone. God, his brain was the worst. Michael was bringing him tea. That's all. ~~Martin used to do that too. He must have seen it in his dreams and is now taunting him.~~ He didn't. Jon doesn't dream of his village anymore. It's just a nice gesture. And they're in Britain! ~~Both Michael and Martin are very nice, now that he thinks about it. What if it will not be him who dies, but Michael? It always happens like that. That's what happens to everyone Jon meets. He's a walking bad omen and he can't do anything about it.~~ Stop stop stop stop

“Jon?” Michael said.

“Oh, hi!” Jon said, straightening up and smiling, trying to pretend he hadn't been caught with his forehead against the table and his hands grabbing fistfuls of hair.

“I brought you your tea...” Michael said, slowly.

“Thank you!” Jon said and took the cup from his hands. It was chamomile. ~~Martin's favourite.~~ Please stop. Jon drank it and tried to enjoy the warmth.

Michael looked down at him with furrowed brows. They were thinner that day. Michael's appearance changed little by little everyday, not just the colour of his eyes. One day his nose would be straight, another day it would be crooked. His cheekbones would be high or hidden by chubbier cheeks. There was never a change drastic enough to be noticed right, but living together, Jon started to notice. ~~Because he was staring at him all that time, like a creep.~~ It was like Michael was indecisive about his form. Most monsters Jon met before were usually settled on one look. Not Nikola. Jon returned to his book before his mind wandered too much to Nikola.

Michael looked at him for a moment before sighing and sitting across the table from him. “I'll stay with you.” He said.

“A-All right!”

Jon heard Michael pick a book and the flipping of pages. He read his own book for a short while, then glanced up to see Michael lying his head over his crossed arms on the table, looking absent-mindedly out the window. Jon smiled and resumed reading. Michael got bored easily. Before long he would be walking around and disturbing everything. The books would always be “magically” back in place. Jon idly wondered if new ones would pop up if he somehow managed to read everything.

He read despite how tacky “The Bone-Turner's Tale” was, until he felt himself being watched and the feeling of anxiety and unease returned. His eyes looked up from the book and he saw Michael looking at him. His mouth and his nose was hidden by his arm and his hair was in his eyes. Jon straightened his back, awkwardly. Is that how he made others feel too?

“You move your lips when you read.” Michael said. “And you whisper a little.”

“O-Oh, do I?” Jon said, laughing a little nervously.

“Yes. It's cute.” Michael said and Jon felt himself blush.

Michael got off the table and stretched his arms and back, in a manner similar to a cat. Jon half-expected him to yawn and bare needle-like teeth.

“Is the book good?” Michael asked.

“Not really.” Jon said.

“Want me to throw it out?”

“What?” Jon laughed.

“Do you want me to throw it out?” Michael said, very casually.

“No! You don't have to throw out a book if I don't like it!”

“But you won't read it.”

“Have you read and liked all the books in the library?”

“No.”

“Then, if you think like that, why did you keep the ones you dislike up until now?”

Michael shrugged. “It's just books.”

“Yes, but you can't just... throw books in the trash.”

“In the woods, then.”

Jon stared at Michael in horror.

“N-No.” Jon said. “Don't throw out any of them!”

“All right!” Michael said.

They stood in silence for a moment as Jon went back to reading, then whipped his head back up at Michael.

“Do you just... throw them out the window in the trees?!”

“Sometimes!” Michael laughed.

His stubble started growing out again. It helped him keep track of time. Time didn't seem to register passing and before he knew it, it was dark outside. Days passed in a moment. It was like summer vacation when he was a child. Before he knew it several weeks passed and the weather was changing. As an adult, days used to feel endless and tiring and before he knew it half a year passed. Now he had no concept of time, like he was a kid all over again. Jon felt he shouldn't feel so soothed by it.

His beard grew in patches because of his scars. He had a tighter-knit cluster on his cheek and hair didn't grow on it anymore, expect for a few stray hairs in the middle. Jon remembered with a shudder when the scars were fresh and the process of healing. He'd get acne around the wounds and peeling skin and they scared him into thinking worms were still there, in him. Now all that was left was nasty-looking little craters that thinned his cheek. Jon sighed. He felt bad for Jane, but God damn her. Michael didn't ask him about his scars and Jon didn't talk about them. He preferred not to, if he could. It was nice to not be gawked at, even if Michael's lack of curiosity in them would have been suspicious if he were a common person. People just aren't that accepting.

Jon picked the razor blade. His burnt hand was manageable most times, except for when he needed to do precise things. He didn't feel bad for Jude at all. He'd wish for her to go to hell, but she'd probably like it in there. Jon tried to learn using his non-dominant hand, but it was a slow process he did not have time to and never got around to in the end. He held the blade in his hand and glided it over a section of his cheek. Pretty good! He took the blade away. Damn, his hand was already shaking. It didn't like being used, but if he didn't it went numb much faster than the healthy – well, less scared one. Make up your mind, damn it.

He pushed to keep going and continued shaving, then cursed out like a sailor and dropped the blade in the sink.

“Are you all right?” Michael called out to him.

“I'm fine! I'm fine!” Jon said, turning on the tap. “I nicked myself.”

“Do you need help?”

“...Yes.”

Jon sat on the edge of the bathtub as Michael stood in front of him. He took a moment to laugh at his face covered in soap-suds, then got to shaving. Jon tried not to look at him as he held him from under his chin and moved his head from side to side. He especially tried not to think about how that's what the Distortion's fingers feel like.

In a dream a few nights ago, Jon found the library and Distortion Michael joined him there. The books in the library in the dreams were different. The titles were in languages he couldn't recognise. He tried to open one and the letters swam around the pages and made his dizzy. Another book, upon opening, had the words and phrases spill out on the floor at his feet. Jon picked up one of them and it was all jumbled. He let it go and it fell like a lead instead. He turned around and saw the Distortion next to him. He was smiling, but he always did that. The corners of his mouth seemed held up by painful hooks. Everything looked exaggerated. He reached out his hands to Jon's face. Jon, too curious for his own good, allowed it that night and stayed still. Michael's fingers were long and had too many knuckles, each finger different. He couldn't tell where the fingers ended and the blade-like nails started. They glided against his face, barely touching. He could feel eyelashes and fuzz fall off and it tickled. Michael looked content with himself. He rested his hands around his neck, lacing the fingers behind his head, and rested his forehead against Jon's. Michael was very touchy in the dreams. In the waking hours he was more modest about it. Jon felt embarrassed about the clarity with which he could recall all the times their hands touched exchanging objects.

“What are you thinking about, Jon?” Michael asked.

Jon woke up from his daze and noticed Michael's hand cradling his cheek.

“Oh, uh, nothing!” He said, straightening his back. Can his blush he noticed through his scars?

“We are done! Did I do good?” He smiled, holding the razor with both of his hands.

Jon walked up to the mirror and looked at himself, taking the moment to clear his head. He didn't miss the fact Michael was sitting out of the reflection, just outside it.

“It's perfect! Thank you!” Jon said, turning on the tap to wash. He reached out a hand to put the razor back in its place. Michael stretched out his arm to him and only took one step closer, still avoiding the mirror. Jon took it without commenting.

Jon wasn't sure why they kept the secrets secret. He didn't tell Michael about his dreams, about his suspicions, about his scars, and Michael didn't tell him either about the dreams, the castle and his true form. They reached some silent agreement not to talk about it. They lived together in blissful ignorance of what was happening to and around them. There were no problems. There were no monsters. No strange dreams. No weird castles. No nightmares. No broken-record thoughts about what hurt him. Everything was fine. Jon would wake up in a soft bed, eat hearty meals, read to his heart's content, stay up until he could barely keep his eyes open, fall asleep immediately from the fatigue, spend the night promenading, then do it again.

Under normal circumstances, Jon would have felt as though he was going mad. He already spent most of his life doing it, why do it again? But he had to admit he was safe. That was the most important of all. And with safety, came peace and comfort. Jon felt genuinely better. _He could rest at night_!

Michael helped him draw a bath and Jon just let himself soak. It wasn't raining that evening. All he could hear was the hot water gently moving around him and an occasional drip from the tap. He rested his head against the edge of the tub and looked at the portière separating the bathroom and his bedroom. He could hear Michael fussing about in there. Jon felt a little bad sometimes, it felt like he was taking advantage of Michael's hospitality. ~~He was lounging in a hot bath with a full belly while the others were dead or lost forever.~~ The waterfall on the curtain looked purple and the trees copper in the light of the candles. He saw Michael's feet beneath it, going from one side of the other. Jon reflexively smiled. He closed his eyes and sank further in the water. Perhaps he shouldn't try to leave anymore. It was going to be fine. He promised himself to never forget Tim and Martin. But he can't wallow in despair forever. It was all going to be fine.

Jon climbed in bed. The sheets were new and pleasantly cold. Michael watched him get comfortable with the soft smile.

“Good night, Jon!” He said after he blew out the candle and filled the room with darkness. The moonlight let Jon see the blueish contours of his hair and body, as of the furniture. On the wall opposite of the window he could tell apart the pattern on the wallpapers, clearly defined and beautiful.

“Good night!” Jon said, sighing into the pillow. He wondered if Michael could see him smile up at him.

Michael closed the door and Jon closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was in the hallways, nothing in sight ahead for a few miles. Michael wasn't there either, yet. He was sure he'd see him eventually and started walking. The wallpaper was very shredded and falling apart in that area and it was a sickly yellow colour, like phlegm. It was cold and he found himself wishing Michael was there.

He saw someone in the distance and sighed in relief, hurrying his step. It didn't take long for him to realise it was not Michael. It was woman. He felt so surprised and confused. He never saw anybody else in his dreams other than Michael since he started living there. He began to feel afraid. Who was that woman?

The woman turned around, slower than he would have liked, as though she too was apprehensive. She had no face. He felt even more confused. The skin on her face moved and slits appeared where the mouth, nostrils and eyes should have been. Slowly, it moulded itself some features. Her face was finished and his eyes opened wide in shock.

From behind the woman, a hand with long claws grabbed her head and dragged her into the darkness. It was not Michael. He ran the opposite direction as fast as he could, but you can't run in nightmares. Yellow wallpaper was falling apart around him and he couldn't breathe. He trashed, but he didn't advance and he wasn't waking up. He saw the Distortion run past him to attack the thing. The thing called for him, said his name in a perverted voice, like it was just teasing him, having fun.

Jon woke up crying out and clutching at the blanket. Everywhere around him was dark. He caught his breath and remembered where he was. He remembered Sasha.

Michael hurried to Jon's room. It was early in the morning and the sky was still dark blue. He spent the night searching every corner of the castle for Not-Them, but they weren't anywhere. It was just a dream.

This hadn't happened before. The mind is a complicated thing, that dreams reflect in even more complicated ways, more or less subtle. Michael suspected Jon was different and the dreams confirmed it. Jon's mind was one full of scars and blemishes that may never heal ever. One may say he was used to pain and confusion and disorientation. The castle and the hallways disturbed him, but not so much so to further harm his mind. His mind did it to itself plenty. Michael did not expect it to be so badly so that it would bleed into his own domain, that it would even make Michael doubt his own safety.

Oh, Michael was so foolish. He knew Jon was unwell. Jon was smiling and ate and was relaxed, but you can't just forget trauma, scars don't go away in a couple of weeks. Oh, such a fool, such a fool. He should have done more to help him. He usually helped people go insane, not sane, but he had to figure something out for Jon. Michael refused to return to being alone. He liked acting human. He liked Jon. He'll help Jon feel better. He'll help him and he'll never wish to leave again. He'll keep him safe, in his waking hours and sleeping ones. He'll love him so much, he'll forget he was ever hurt. Love won't make scars go away, but it'll make them bearable. Michael would have loved that, he yearned so much for someone to help him, to soothe his own scars. It would have been such a cruelty to let Jon suffer the same thing he went through. Michael was not cruel. He was not like the other monsters both he and Jon met. He was better. He will make Jon better. They will be happy and safe and at peace, despite all the cruelty and deceit and _horseshit_ they were made to go through, _and for what?!_

Michael opened the door to Jon's bedroom a little suddenly and he stopped in his tracks. Shoot, he made Jon flinch. Michael wanted to slap himself. He took a deep breath and slowly made his way to Jon. He was lying on his stomach at the edge of the bed furthest from the door, hugging a pillow and staring at the wall opposite the door. Michael walked around the bed and knelt next to him.

Jon's eyes were open and he was staring ahead at the wall, lost in thought. His mouth was frowning and his brows were knit tight. His cheeks were stained with dry tears and his eyes were glassy and bloodshot. Oh, Michael messed up so bad. Jon was sitting still as a statue, looking at the wall both accusingly and tired. His breathing was seemingly calm and even.

“Jon?” Michael said quietly.

Jon's eyes shifted at him. Michael drew back, feeling goosebumps. Jon's eyes went back at the wall after confirming it was Michael. Michael blinked a couple of times and scooted closer, reaching under the pillow and finding Jon's hand.

“It was just a dream, Jon.” Michael said.

Jon knew that.

“It can't hurt you.”

Jon snatched his hand from Michael's.

Michael furrowed his brows, at a loss of what to do.

Jon watched him get up and walk around the room. He didn't try to see what he was doing. He was tired. ~~He was so tired of everything.~~ He was too tired to sleep. ~~He was such an idiot.~~ Of course things wouldn't be better so easily. Of course he couldn't just get over it all and just be happy, act like everything was suddenly better, like magically got better overnight. Some food and some baths weren't going to erase all the shit that happened. ~~They weren't going to erase everything he was tricked into doing. They will always haunt him. Did he honestly think he could get away?~~ Jon was still under the delusion that what he wanted mattered. That things would go his way. ~~His own psyche was against him.~~ He forgot Sasha of all people. He didn't even notice he forgot her. ~~Just like he didn't notice she was not herself.~~ Jon was the worst, the absolute worst. His mind was riddled with holes, just like his body. ~~How was he even alive? He should just die already. What was the point?~~ He's away from it all and protected, he found a haven against all hope, and he's _still_ not happy. ~~Will he ever be happy? Ever? Fucking ever?~~

He felt the other side of the bed dip.

“Can I stay with you, Jon?” Michael asked.

Jon didn't answer. Michael was going to do it anyway. Martin would do that too. It wore Jon down. Martin would help him despite his declining and pretending to be all right. ~~Look where it got him.~~ Michael's kindness was better off somewhere else. It couldn't help Jon. Nothing could. He was a lost cause. ~~Michael should get it over with it and kill him already. Stop prolonging it. The objective of the con was over.~~

Jon wasn't sure what Michael was doing. At one point it sounded like he was reading. He stood in silence as to not disturb him and at some points Jon would forget he was there until he heard his breath or shifting in the mattress. Jon remained in the same position, looking at the wall, thinking and ruminating on everything. He gave up trying to stop his thoughts. He had no control over his own mind by that point. His body ached to much to move. He might as well be dead.

He didn't want to do anything else. What was he to do in the castle? Read, eat and sleep. It was so much calmer and more boring of a life than his previous one. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel fair after everything. Did Michael really expect him to forget and drop everything and just stay with him? In what way was that not suspicious? Jon should have gotten away when he had the chance. He should have taken shelter that night. Now he will either die after a life of fuck-up after fuck-up, or fuck up again and hurt someone again. He just can't ever win, can he?

Jon didn't notice when the room got dark. He heard Michael open the door and walk inside. When did he leave? Oh, does it even matter anymore? He thought he felt him climb in the bed again. A moment later he felt him above him, speaking softly and close.

“Jon, I’m sorry to wake you up.” He hadn't fallen asleep. “But I warmed you up some milk.” He said, tentatively touching his shoulder.

Jon made no sign of acknowledgement, but at the mention of milk his stomach cried in pain from being so empty. There was no way Michael didn’t hear it. He resolved to curl further into the corner, making it clear it was a refuse.

“I mixed in lots and lots of honey.” He continued, voice quiet, gently stroking her arm. “It’s so sweet and it will feel so warm in your belly.”

His stomach growled again, more insistent. Jon didn't move. ~~Stop pretending already. It's over. He won. Jon probably won't ever get out of there. Shred him already like the wallpaper.~~

“Please drink it…” Michael sighed. “I will leave you alone if you do. Just a sip, only one.”

“No.” Jon said, loud and clear.

Michael didn't say anything. Jon didn't hear him move. He thought he saw the leaves of the vines on the wallpaper wilt and falter.

“I'll leave the mug here, if you change your mind.” Michael said. Jon wanted to roll his eyes.

He wasn't sure if he fell asleep that night. He'd find his eyes were closed and open them back frequently. His mind kept wandering to dark places, especially when they were closed. Looking at the twisting lines of the wallpaper helped. His eyes were so tired they seemed to be shifting. He'd follow and curve and watch it blend into other ones. He had the fanciful thought they were a map to the hallways in the dreams. He remembered his dream with Sasha, then his nightmares before finding the castle. He buried his face in the pillow, forcing himself to think of anything else, but his mind kept going back there. Was his brain not aware of the harm it was causing itself? Wasn't the brain's goal to keep itself and the bod it lives in alive? He was so tired and numb. He just wanted it to end already.

Jon remembered thinking when he was young, when life and its hardships began to hit and he realised he wasn't in full control of his mind, that maybe it would help to view himself, his body and his brain as separate beings forced to work together. You can't chose your life and how you are born ~~and apparently nothing else afterwards either.~~ He'd think that it was not him the one broken and malfunctioning, but the brain and body parts he was assigned by the universe. It was a very bad strategy of course. He couldn't just separate parts of himself and call them bad. They were still his, even if he didn't consider them “him”. Nothing he came up with to cope really worked. Eventually it would stop working and he felt miserable again.

How did he come to feel better again? He couldn't pinpoint and exact moment. He was sad and tired and bored and lonely and suicidal, but he still had to go to school, still had to go to work. He couldn't just stop. The world couldn't just stop for him to catch up and figure out what the fuck bothered him again. One day he'd notice that hey, he hadn't had so many bad thoughts in while, he actually enjoying doing things again, he could handle dark thoughts and memories a little better. He guessed that over time he got used to it and it didn't scare and hurt him as much. What a thing to get used to... But it meant that eventually he would feel better after this to. He just had to feel like shit at the moment. Within a few weeks or months he'd be happy and enjoying his time with Michael again, just like nothing bad ever happened. It felt so stupid. Why did it happen in the first place, then? Why did anything happen, really? What did Jon ever do to deserve it?

Nothing, was the answer. Jon knew that now. He was tricked and roped in somebody else's dirty deeds and now he paid the price instead of them. He happened to be the closest person available at the moment. Pure bad luck. His life was ruined and his brain was rotten because of bad luck. _Are you fucking kidding him?_

Jon wondered when Michael was going to do something about him. He'd feel him in the room sometimes, keeping him silent company, keeping an eye on him, trying to get him to eat. Jon tried to drink the milk he brought him after he left, but he genuinely wasn't hungry. His stomach hurt after he drank it. Jon noticed eating came hard when he felt bad. Hence why he was so skinny. His body refused to work, as much as his brain did. Perhaps they really were separate from Jon and allied in making him suffer.

“Jon, please drink at least a little.”

Jon stood still and thought for a moment and then made to push himself up. Michael immediately helped him and pulled him in a sitting position against the headboard. Jon watched him take the mug from the night-stand with his free arm, the other one holding him up. It was the navy-blue mug. The white of the milk and of the steam coming out made a pretty contrast. He brought the mug to his lips and he reluctantly drank. He drank a sip that was big enough to hopefully make him quiet. When Jon was about to let go, Michael tilted the mug higher, forcing him to keep drinking. Jon made a sound of surprise and protest, but Michael caught his hands and kept him still. A line was already dripping down his chin and onto his neck. When the mug was empty, fully tilted up, Michael took it away and let go. Jon gasped for air, already feeling himself starting to sweat from the heat of the milk. Michael wiped the milk off his chin. Jon glared at him.

“You can lie back down after you burp.” He said, a little smug and pushing it by leaving his hand on Jon’s chin.

“I’m not a baby.” He said, pissed off. Michael was glad to see some emotion in him, even if negative.

Jon didn't want to die. Not really. His life was bullshit, and then he'd die. What kind of conclusion would that be? In a way he stubbornly continued living, pushed through the pain, in hopes of becoming happy again and _remain_ like that. It had yet to happen. He was nearing his thirties and it _still_ wasn't happening.

The wind outside the castle was howling and shaking the windows in their frames. He could hear them banging somewhere else. Michael must have forgotten them open. It kept Jon from dozing off. The sky was grey and making it dark. A storm must be coming.

Jon didn't want to die, but, God, was he sick of living like that. His bones ached from the weather changing outside. His hair and his skin felt nasty. He wanted to take a bath, but had no energy to get up.

He managed to push himself in a sitting position on the edge of the bed and stood there, staring into space. He turned around to look at the portière of the bathroom. It was a different one. What the fuck, Michael? The curtain depicted a white and grey sky with bare, black branches of a tree erupting from either side. A few tits, like black blobs, dotted the branches here and there. It looked like the vines on the wallpaper, but more angular. What was Michael doing? Jon looked at the floor underneath and saw it was tiled, like the bathroom he knew. Was he trying to make Jon curious and move? Well, it worked.

Jon cautiously moved the edge of the curtain and peeked inside. It was his bathroom. The window of the bathroom showed a clear blue sky. Jon had no energy to react to that. He went to the sink and washed his face with cold water. It helped a little. He didn't feel so greasy and his eyes weren't crusty anymore. The tiles on the floor were cold. He looked up at the portière and it was the waterfall again. Jon walked back in his room and lied back in bed. The sheets felt different and clean. The sky was grey and the wind was still blowing outside.

The patterns on the wallpaper moved during the day too now. The golden and white vines were twisting around one another on the yellow background. Jon watched them absent-mindedly. He idly wondered if the pattern on the ripped wallpapers continued to move, or if they “died”.

He got out of bed and crouched in front of the wall. He placed a finger between the spirals. He couldn't feel anything, but they swan around his finger rather than underneath it. Was he blocking their way? It was kind of cute. In Michael's weird way.

Jon dug his fingernail in the wallpaper. The spirals avoided him further. He managed to get it underneath and catch onto a corner. The ripped it a little and watched the spirals continue to move, just our of his way. Jon jerked his hand down, ripping a big chunk of the paper. He caught a spiral and cut it in half. The fragments writhed in pain and floated down to where the wall met the floor. They fell limp, like noddles.

Jon heard Michael's footsteps coming towards his room. He hurried back in bed and pretended to be asleep. It was the worst lie he could come up with in the moment, but he didn't exactly have time to think.

He listened to Michael come in his room and walk up to him, next to the bed. He heard him crouch down to his level and place a heavy hand on his shoulder. Jon thought that that was it.

“Jon, I know you are curious, but please don't destroy my house.” Michael said, calm and even. Jon still felt cold sweat roll down his back.

“I won't.” He mumbled.

Michael sighed and put his chin against Jon's shoulder, rubbing his arm with his thumb. Jon opened his eyes. Through Michael's hair he saw that the tear in the wallpaper was gone.

“I'll bring you milk and biscuits.” He said after a moment, but not moving from where he leaned over Jon. “Not a lot, so you can eat all of it. Will you eat?”

“I will.” Jon mumbled.

When Jon fell asleep again, it came as a surprise. He'd nap and doze off, but not fall properly asleep and have dreams. Michael told him not to be scared of sleeping. Easier said than done, Jon thought.

Michael thought for a moment, then lifted the blanket. “I'll stay here with you so you are not scared.” He said, lying next to Jon.

Jon stared at Michael for a long moment. It was useless to argue with this guy. Jon sighed and turned his back to him. The last thing he expected was to actually fall asleep.

The was in the hallways. He recognised them as the ones from when he got lost in the beginning of his stay. Yes, he was in the hexagonal hallway, with a door on each wall. Except the way was blocked with curtains instead of doors. Was it a different place then? There was no clue as to what was on the other side. All of them were the same yellow colour, like the walls around them.

He picked the one in the middle and pushed it away. It was a staircase descending down into darkness. Jon went down it and found the doors to a cellar. He opened them and entered a wide basement with low ceilings. There were tunnels in all directions, another labyrinth. He chose a tunnel and started exploring. It was like exploring the hallways above, the same monotony and tedious, fruitless walking in circles, but peaceful. He could just turn off his brain and walk, not worry about anything. The only difference was that instead of yellow wallpaper there was smooth stone and darkness. He found he didn't have trouble navigating and there was nothing obstructing his way. There was a low, rumbling noise in the background, like a growl. The ground felt as though it was tilting then going back in place and it coincided with the rumbling. He deduced it was the castle shifting and changing its architecture.

He came across a hallway blocked by a portière. It was old and discoloured. There were tears in it that he recognised as Michael's. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the drawing on it seemed to be roses. One, the larger one in the front, was red and artistic. He made to reach for it and push it to the side, when a hand grabbed him by the wrist. It was Michael. He dragged him back through the tunnel, back up to the surface. The light and the yellow blinded him for a moment. As he was rubbing his eyes, he felt Michael wrap his arms around him, as though apologising. Jon put his hands on Michael's chest and looked up at him, and Michael placed his forehead against his. He let him go and urged him to explore the upper levels instead, but Jon's mind kept wandering back to the tunnels and the rose curtain.

It took Jon a moment to realise he was awake. His eyes kept wanting to close back. His bedroom was dyed blue in the light of early morning.

He turned around and saw Michael was still in his bed. He was sleeping on his back, head sunken in the pillow and curly hair framing his face. His lips were parted and his chest rose and fell slowly as he breathed.

Michael's eyes cracked open and focused on him. They weren't settled on a colour yet. Michael drowsily reached for Jon and pulled him towards him. He groaned and wrapped an arm around Jon, bending the other beneath his pillow. He fell back asleep in a second. Jon made himself comfortable as much as he could under his grip and resolved to bury his face in Michael's chest. He didn't go back to sleep, but that was because he wasn't tired anymore. He waited and watched as the room filled with light and listened to Michael breathe. The patterns on the wall were going wild. The curls in Michael's hair were moving, and so was the embroidery in his shirt. His form slipped away in his sleep. Jon thought about how he should probably feel more concerned about that. But he wasn't. He began to feel fine again for the moment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up, uni is cancelled because of the coronavirus outbreak, which means I have time to write, let's fuckin goooo

Jon no longer felt better. He was wide awake, couldn't feel his arms and his back was screaming at him, begging him to move. Michael's arms were wrapped around his head and shoulders, he couldn't wriggle free without disturbing him. Michael's face was in his hair and he was pretty sure his mouth was open, he could feel him breathe against him, and for all he knew he was drooling. One of his legs was draped over Jon's, making the most he could do be staring up at the top of the canopy and wait for Michael to wake up.

He thought several times of waking Michael up, but kept hesitating. He told himself he'll do it now. And now. Aaaand now. But then never did it. The needles in his body and the debate whether to do it or not helped him avoid thinking of unpleasant things, though.

He wouldn't really want Michael to get off of him, had it not been to his discomfort and aching bones. He would feel a stab in his ribs or in his joints. The weather must be changing again. Jon wondered what it was like not to ache like an old man ahead of time. From that position he couldn't see Michael's hair or the wallpaper without actively turning his head to look. That was fine. Looking at them made him dizzy after a while and now he began to feel drowsy again. Michael was comfortably heavy against him, like a weighted blanket. As he breathed he would press against him even more, rhythmically. Jon could perfectly place his forehead and his cheek against Michael's arm and shoulder. He could feel his skin against his own, feel his heartbeat, hear his breathing, and it felt warm and human. There was a pleasant ache in Jon's throat and chest, warm and tender and fuzzy. The room was very bright. Was it 9 in the morning? Was it noon already?

Michael stirred and Jon's eyes opened back. He got off Jon slightly and stretched his back, moaning quietly, before lying back down. Jon took the chance to shift too, hiding his nose in Michael's chest, forcing his eyes closed. He wanted to fall back asleep and look for the tunnels. He was so curious about them. It's been a while since he was genuinely excited about something, so curious he overlooked the possible consequences.

He did it! He was in the hallways!

He looked around and saw Michael a few feet away. When he saw him too, he walked up to him and took his hand. They walked together down the yellow hallways, in silence. Michael's form was uncertain. He kept glitching, winking out of view. Was he waking up? They only seemed to be there when they were asleep.

He looked away and when he looked back, Michael was gone.

He started running down the hall, searching the walls for the yellow portière. If he could at least get a glimpse of the tunnels again, any clue to them, to what was behind the rose curtain.

“Good morning, Jon.”

Jon felt a weight against his chest and one of Michael's hands on his cheek. The thumb was rubbing his cheekbones and brushing his eyelashes. Jon groaned and stretched his legs, leaning into the hand. He brought a hand to his chest and felt Michael's hair, as he was lying with his head on him. Jon tried to open his eyes, but drifting off made him drowsy again.

“Did you sleep well?” Michael asked tracing a finger over his eyelid.

“Mh-hmm.” Jon said, clearing his throat.

“Did you have nice dreams?”

“I did.” He said after a moment's thought.

Michael smiled and didn't move off of him, continuing to stroke Jon's face.

“What time is it?” Jon asked.

“I don't know.” Michael said.

Jon hummed and looked at nothing in particular as Michael moved a nail beneath his lower eyelashes, bending and curling them. Jon's eye twitched and he leaned away from Michael's hand, but he kept doing it, then he moved his nail against his scars instead.

“What are you doing?” Jon asked, furrowing his brows.

“Nothing.” Michael said, still doing it, idly smiling.

“Are you bored?”

“Nope! I'm enjoying myself, in fact.”

Jon looked at him with narrow eyes.

“Are you hungry, Jon?” He asked.

“No.” Jon said and a second later his stomach growled. He looked away from Michael, angry and embarrassed. His own body betrayed him again.

“What do would you like to eat?” Michael continued. “What would be tasty?”

“I don't know...”

“Soup?”

“...Sure.”

“I'll bring it to you later. It's not like we have anything to do.” He said, fingers threading through Jon's hair. Jon thought about how greasy it must feel. “We'll just stay here and eat and nap.”

“I want to take a bath.” Jon said.

“Now?”

“... Later.”

Michael gave him a little smile and got off of him. Jon watched him loom above him, then lie next to him, head on one of his shoulder and hand holding his other one. He had to move his head away as to not get a mouthful of hair.

“I don't want to sleep anymore.” Jon said. He felt tired and weak, but sleep-wise he was rested. He had no reason to be tired, he had done nothing but sulk.

“Then we'll just sit together.” Michael said, stroking his arm. “We’ll chat.”

“Okay.”

“I'm glad you feel better.”

“I guess I am...”

“You are. I'm very glad of it. I hate seeing you sick.”

“Oh, uh, I'm not sick. I'm not ill.”

“How were you not? You were so weakened.”

“Y-Yeah, but it wasn't, uh, a physical illness. Not a cold or something like that. It was just... my brain being... stupid.”

“It's still an illness, Jon. The brain can be ill too and it can be very dangerous.”

“I-I know.”

“You can tell me what upsets you, you know? I'll do my best to help. You shouldn't keep it inside you like that. It will drive you mad.”

“I know...”

“Let's talk about something else for now. What would you like to talk about?”

“About the castle. How did you come in possession of it? I don't think you told me.”

“Ah.” Michael said and paused for a second before continuing. “You're right, I didn't.”

Jon thought for a moment. He hesitated, but decided to do it anyway. “Tell me about your castle.” He said, carefully. He felt Michael squeeze his arm. Jon began to regret it, when he felt him move his hand away and reaching to pet Jon's hair.

“Sure!” He replied, voice as clear and cheerful as before. “I came upon it a long time ago, much like you did, except it was empty. But I do remember that I was with someone else. I was working under a woman named Gertrude.”

Jon's breath hitched and goosebumps filled his arms. Michael didn't notice or pretended he didn't.

“We came upon this castle and spent the night. When we rose in the morning, it was completely different. We could no longer find the exit. Miss Robinson decided we shall split up. I never saw her face again. I wandered the hallways high and low. With time, I got used to this place. I learned how to navigate. You can walk for as much as you want, as you've noticed, and not reach anything. But eventually you will come across a room or a corridor you know. After what I assume was a long time, I found my way out, but... I decided to remain here. I got so used to this place, I almost felt bad about leaving it. For all I know I will never find it again.”

“For how long have you been here?”

“Oh, who knows! Time doesn't really matter here. One window shows you one sky and another show you something else. But it's safe. The castle seems alive sometimes. It mirrors you. When you got lost, it made little sense, didn't it? But if you walk the routes _you know_ , it is easier. You know your room and your library are on this hallway and that the dining room is on that hallway. It shapes itself, following your memory of it. This can be tricky, depending on how your own mind is. In a way, it was better that you stayed here and rested, rather than wander the hallways, force yourself. I could look after you better since you stayed put.” He laughed. “When you feel even better, I'll take you to the courtyard. It should be spring or summer right now. There are lots of flowers. The garden has went quite wild, but it's charming like that, you know? Like the forest seeped through the walls. There are lilies, and lilacs, and peonies,...”

Jon listened and watched him, focusing on him and not on his own thoughts, or on his itching hair and skin, or the memories he had related to itching. He focused on the feeling of Michael's fingers threading through the side of his head, along the edge of his brow, behind his ear. His fingers would circle the shell of his ear, caress the back of it as he pulled back the hair, before going back up to the hairline. It felt nice. So did having Michael on top of him. It was nice and warm and comforting. It's been a long time since something like this.

He watched Michael's hair – it was pretty much in his face - and followed the shape of the curls with his eyes, then the shape of his brows, the way his eyelashes curled up. They were so light, it was such a pretty shade of blond. He also felt the urge to pet his hair. Michael's hair looked so clean in comparison to his, it must feel so soft to the touch. He looked like a sheep. Jon looked lower at Michael's cheek, the fuzz visible in the light, then down at his nose and his lips. He couldn't take his eyes off the way his mouth moved, the way his Cupid's bow curled. His lips were tinted pink. Jon felt the urge to trace them with his finger. They looked soft too.

“What else do you want to know?” He asked.

“Huh?”

“What else do you want to know?” Michael repeated, laughing softly.

“Um… I don’t know…” Jon said, feeling himself blush, forgetting everything he had been meaning to ask. He felt Michael smile against his shoulder and hug him tighter.

“Can I ask you something as well?” He asked.

“Sure, go ahead.” Jon said.

Michael raised his head off his shoulder to face him. “What did you dream about?” He asked, always smiling.

“Um...” Jon looked away from him, trying to figure something out. Michael smiled wider, mouth closed and eyes crinkled. He brought a finger to Jon's face and stroked his eyebrow, then uncomfortably close to the edge of his eye, the space between his rows of eyelashes in the corner of it.

“Do you remember your dreams?” He asked.

“S-Sometimes...”

“What did you dream about last night? Was it pleasant?”

“Yes.” Jon admitted. “Yes, it was. I dreamed of the castle, that I was walking through the hallways.”

“What did they look like?”

“Like they usually do, but no windows or doors. And they were all yellow. Kind of like your hair, actually.”

Michael hummed at that, attentive and interested, as though he didn't already know all of that. He was putting on quite a good performance. Jon wanted to smile. This game, whatever they were doing, was kind of fun. Both of them already knew the other's secret. Who will tell the truth first? Who will slip? It was silly how entertaining it was in that moment.

Jon sat upright against the bed frame as Michael handed him a bowl of soup. It was hot and steam rose up from it, blocking his vision as he looked down. Jon ate fast and stuffing his cheeks, burning his mouth and throat a little. It tasted so good. Part of that might have been due to Jon's hunger, but it was so good.

He glanced over to Michael and saw he was watching him eat.

“Is it good?” He asked.

Jon nodded and smiled.

He continued eating.

Michael continued watching him.

Jon became uncomfortably aware of all the sounds he was making and how they could come off out of context. Michael kept looking at him, not paying attention to Jon deliberately avoiding eye-contact, and even reached up to pull a strand of hair out of Jon's face.

“You don't have to eat all.” Michael said. “I don't want you to have a tummy ache too.”

Jon smiled nervously and continued eating. He only left a bit of broth on the bottom of the bowl. Michael, very happy, put the bowl away on a night-stand. He stroked Jon's cheek with the back of his hand, continuing to look at him. Was he looking at his mouth? Jon half-expected him to lean in to kiss him. He didn't do it. Jon felt oddly disappointed.

“I'll be back shortly.” He said, getting off the bed and taking the bowl with him.

“Alright.” Jon said and watched him walk out the door.

Jon thought and decided that Michael seemed to be testing how much he could get away with. Jon was unsure of the boundaries too, considering the previous night and morning. He didn't dislike it. He liked to be held. He liked Michael. He wasn't actively malevolent. Maybe this will be fine. Maybe he's safe for real this time. He shouldn't hope too much, but it was nice to be able to do it.

Jon looked around his room, before getting up and walking over to his bookshelf. The floor was cold, mostly because he was walking barefoot. He returned to the bed with a book. The sky outside slowly got covered by white and light grey clouds, softening the light. There were a couple of raindrops on the window. Except for the turning of his pages, the castle was silent. Jon didn't pay much attention to the book. It was pretty dumb. Something about demons. He read but didn't retain anything. But it was good for turning off his brain, have something distract him, while basking in the quiet. Back home, he didn't get those often. There was always the sound of work in another part of the buildings, of carts going down the street, of kids screaming, of animals and birds. At night there wasn't much rest either. He couldn't stay up because he had to be awake in the morning, but sleeping wasn't restful either.

He couldn't remember not having nightmares. They involved scary things and evolved as he grew up. From spiders, the darkness of his bedroom, his grandma dying and a random boogeyman, to getting bad grades, to being hurt, to dying himself, to being always unhappy. In his academic pursuits, he learnt more scary things, more than he ever wanted.

Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn't his fault. He was aware of that. None of it was his fault. It was bad luck and circumstance. It. Was not. His fault. He kept reading the book, trying to pay attention and push other thoughts away. No matter how many times he reminded himself, no matter how much he reasoned, how much time passed, how much proof there was to his innocence, such thoughts continued to appear in the darkest hours, torment him as his dreams did. Jon was aware of their falsehood but it seems he just can't win. At least he had the consolation he was not a monster. He was a good man. It wasn't his fault. He never wanted to hurt anyone. He is not like the rest of them.

The door to Jon's room opened and Michael stepped in. He climbed into the bed and sat back next to Jon.

“Do you like your book?” He asked, peeking at the page he was on.

“Yeah, yeah... It's fine.” Jon said.

Michael nodded, stood quiet a moment, before leaning against Jon's shoulder. Jon froze and tensed up, but didn't say anything. Michael shifted to be more comfortable, his curls tickling his neck and falling down his chest. Jon tried really hard to keep reading. Could Michael hear his heart beating faster? Could he feel the warmth of his face? What was Jon even so nervous for? They've slept in the same bed and Michael touched him plenty so far. Jon's face burnt harder at that thought. Why was he blushing?! He liked Michael, but not that way.

…

…Or did he?

Oh.

He... he did like his company... And the morning made him feel good...

Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait

Wait.

Michael couldn't possibly like him like that, right? He let him into him home out of charity, helped him wash out of pity and his own kindness, looked after him because Jon was in a miserable state and he felt bad for him, slept in the bed with him to soothe him, lied on top of him and hugged him and caressed his face and-

 _Oh_.

“Jon, you've been reading the same page for an awfully long time.” Michael said.

Jon blushed furiously and Michael laughed softly.

“What are you thinking about?” Michael asked.

“Oh, uh, nothing. Just... zoning out.”

Michael hummed and got off Jon's shoulder, only to lie his head against his thighs.

“What are you doing?!” Jon said, flustered, voice reaching a higher pitch.

“I'm tired.” Michael said, simply. “Can I sit here with you? I'll leave if you don't want it.”

“N-No, it's fine, i-it's just...” Jon stuttered and didn't finish his sentence.

Michael smiled up at him sweetly and got himself comfortable in his lap, cheek against the fabric of the pyjama pants and a hand on his knee. Jon looked down at the mass of blond hair, too rattled to reason what to do. He remembered the book in his hands and resumed reading. Michael was so silent, Jon wondered if he was asleep. He wondered before if he slept. He did it with him, and he was in the other hallways while Jon was asleep, but Jon wondered if he could do it without needing to be unconscious like he did. Could he snoop around the real castle while he was asleep like this? Certainly not right now, with him literally on his lap. But another time. Hmm...

Jon held the book above Michael head, but gradually let it lower and lower until he was resting it against Michael's hair, the spine of the book in the crook of his neck. His heart calmed down and resumed feeling peaceful. The book was still kind of stupid. If he were genuinely invested he might be mad at the inconsistencies. What troubled him more was the itching of his skin and his hair. He felt gross. At times it felt like something was moving along the skin or in between the threads of hair. He knew there wasn't anything, but as mentioned previously, his brain blew everything out of proportion. It got to the point where scratching would not alleviate it for long. It felt gross to constantly scratch too.

He wanted to let Michael know he wanted to wash, but it really seemed like he was asleep. He couldn't see his face from that position.

“Hey...” He said quietly. Michael didn't react. Jon thought about touching his shoulder to catch his attention, or stroking his hair, and he blushed again. He took a deep breath.

“Michael...?” He asked.

“Yes?” He replied, turning around to look at him, wide awake. His hair pressed against Jon's stomach and overflew up, over his face. Jon held back a smiled.

“Sorry, but could you move over? I want to go take a bath.”

“Oh, alright.” He said, getting off the bed entirely.

“What are you doing?” Jon asked.

“Going to help you.”

“I-It's fine, I can wash myself.”

“You just got better. I don't want you to tire yourself again.”

“A-Alright.”

The water was very warm. Jon would have liked to lie in it completely. Michael's fingers were scratching his scalp, digging his nails as he scrubbed. It felt so good, Jon sat with his eyes closed, moving it from a shoulder to the other. The soap smelled like flowers and candy. He stank so bad, he didn't know how could Michael stand to sit near him.

Michael put a hand on his forehead to make him lean back so he could rinse him out. He watched Jon pull his head back with difficulty, the water weighing him down, his spine pushing against the skin. Michael thought about how he had to make Jon eat more. He continued to wash Jon's hair, trying to focus on something other than his scars. He instead watched the baby hairs on the back of his neck. They curled as they stuck to his wet skin, like scribbles on a sheet of paper. Michael pulled them around with the tip of his finger and shaped them into spirals. He poured water over him, setting them back in place. Jon's hair grew long. He might want to cut it. Michael liked it long. In a few months it might reach past his shoulders.

He poured some water over Jon's shoulders and watched it roll down his skin. The darker hair on his forearms shifted, following the liquid. He could trace the path of the water going back in the tub.

Michael's eyes glanced back to the back of Jon's neck. Jon was so mellow and docile from the water he allowed himself to be pulled back, to lean against the tub. Michael scrubbed his hairline and his temples, while looking down at Jon's chest. His collarbone and ribcage stood out more than Michael liked. He could see them interlocking on the middle of his chest. The hairs on Jon's chest were curling too. Michael wanted to touch them. Trace them up to the dip in his collarbone at the base of his neck, where water gathered. Up his neck, following the Adam's apple, graze it with his nail. Under Jon's chin, round it and over his lower lip. It looked plump, Michael wondered what it would feel like to dig his nail into the middle of it.

“Michael?” Jon asked.

“Huh?” Michael said, startled from his reverie. He realised he was leaning over the edge of the tub, next to Jon's head, pretty much leaning over his shoulder, staring down at Jon's neck. His hand stopped moving and just lied over Jon's head.

“...What are you doing?” Jon asked after a pause.

“Oh, nothing!” Michael said, getting up. He quickly handed Jon the rag to scrub himself before he could ask any further questions. Jon took it and obeyed, blushing again. He wished he could go back to being oblivious.

“It's raining today.” Michael said, looking at the window. It was a gentle rain, lazily staining the glass. The sky wasn't even completely dark. “I will take you outside tomorrow, if it hopefully stops.”

“To your gardens?” Jon asked.

“Yes! I do think you'll like them.” He said as he was getting towels ready.

“I think so too.” Jon said, then paused. A thought came in his mind that didn't show up in a while. Michael was going to show him an exit. He was going to be outside and away from the castle. Jon could escape the castle as he wanted. … ...Did he still want to escape?

“What kind of flowers do you like, Jon?” Michael asked.

“Oh, I don't know...” Jon said, laughing a little. “I like all of them.”

“Any kind in particular?”

Jon thought for a moment. “I like magnolia.”

“Oh! Those are so beautiful!”

“They are! Back at home, around the church, there were pink and white trees and they smelled _so good_!”

“Did you go to church a lot, then?”

“No, not that much. I mostly went there to study.”

“Were you going to become a priest?”

“God, no!” Jon laughed. “One of the priests was also a professor and I would go to him for books I had trouble finding.”

“What were you studying?”

Jon fell quiet for a moment. There was a lot to unpack.

“Well, it _started_ with literature...”

Michael hummed in approval as he handed Jon a towel to cover himself as he got out of the tub.

“But then, as I was writing my thesis, I fell down a rabbit hole of history and mythology and I moved to a different school, then I was offered a job at a different place and...” Jon continued, then shook his head. “It's a mess, in all honesty. Mostly because of my own fault.”

“Why is that?” Michael asked, putting a towel over his hair.

“I'm too curious for my own good.” Jon said, his little laugh dying slowly.

Jon sighed and continued to dry himself. Michael didn't say anything else and helped him do it faster. Water drops gathered in Jon's scars.

Michael enjoyed Jon's company a lot. He liked having someone else with him in the castle. He had been alone for such a long time. He wasn't lying when he told Jon “who knows”. For all both of them knew, he had been there for decades. He couldn't age. Time passed strangely. So far away from everything, without knowledge of what was going on in the world, for all he knew he had been there for centuries. All that there was around the castle was woodland. The trees were ancient, evergreen. Some winters barely had any snow and some summers were full of rain. Who ever knows what is going on?

Michael wondered sometimes if he was even there. All there was was him and the castle. Sometimes, walking down the infinite corridors, it felt like he wasn't there. It felt like he was the corridors, tracing their own endless pathways. He had traversed them so many times, he knew them by heart, a feat in itself impossible. He could walk them through his mind's eye. All he saw in his dreams were the corridors again. He could not get away. He had tried to get away. He found a way out and he hopped the gates. He walked and walked through the endless forest, through the endless green. It felt like he was losing himself there too. It felt scarier than in the castle. The castle was a singular place, he knew the castle by then. The forest as the domain of other things he did not know. He didn't know the castle either, but was at least used to it. Habit made it easier to handle than the needles of the pines, the dark earth, the insects, the birds, the prey and predators, and the dark and the cold, even if it was not pleasant. Pleasant or not, it was all he had. Gertrude Robinson was long gone. For all he knew she was dead, while he was forced to live forever in corridors that stretched forever. The human mind was not meant for forever. The castle twisted him in order to fit. Michael could no longer tell what was wake and what was dream, what was him and what was not, and perhaps that was for the best. There is a certain tranquillity in insanity, in no longer being able to focus enough to realise how bad it was. In the moments of lucidity, the realisation of how bad it was would strike him back into the madness, either his own brain's response to keep itself from breaking even more, or the castle keeping him prisoner, keeping itself whole.

In one of those moments of lucidity, Jon arrived at the castle. Michael was so taken aback he forgot about the place he was in, what he was, what had happened and tormented him all this time. All he could think about was the man that was suddenly next to him, real and alive and not the forest, not the castle, not himself, but his own being, breathing and bleeding and smiling and speaking and listening. He allowed him to stay in the castle without even thinking it through.

The more he interacted with Jon, the happier Michael felt. He was lucid without despairing, because he had something real to focus on, to dote on. Jon needed him to be sane, to be real, and Michael could do it. He could be human again. He could share and talk and laugh and worry and feed and wash and hold and sleep and comfort. Oh, he wanted to do so many things with Jon. He enjoyed them all so much, they made him so very happy. His chest ached so sweetly around Jon, he wanted to help him and hold him and be with him forever.

What was even better was that Jon was unusual himself. He was awfully curious, like he himself admitted. He dreamed of the corridors too. In the dreams, he looked much different. He was tormented, like Michael was. He could understand. They could help one-another, support one-another. He could stay with Michael forever! _This was perfect_!

“Good morning, Jon.” Michael said, caressing Jon's shoulder to wake him up. He didn't sleep in the bed with him that night. He didn't want to push it. Jon groaned and turned around, rubbing his face and stretching his back and legs, making some really ugly sounds. Michael couldn't stop himself from laughing.

He grumbled something out that sounded like “good morning”.

“It's very sunny today!” Michael said. “We can go in the gardens!”

“Oh, how nice!” Jon said, rubbing his eyes, trying to open them.

Michael brought him a cup of tea and sat on the edge of the bed next to him as he drank. Jon's hair was a mess. It was soft from being clean and it was so tangled, Michael could perfectly picture the tangles he'd meet if he moved his hands through it. He wondered if he could get Jon to let him do it.

Jon looked up at him and quickly looked back down at his tea when he saw that Michael was looking at him. Michael wondered if Jon knew how cute he was when he did that. He also wondered if he was aware that Michael already knew most things. He could safely guess where he got his scars from and why he looked like that in his dreams. Jon didn't want to talk with Michael about it. No, he wouldn't talk about it, despite how much Michael assured him he could. Michael assumed it would make him feel better, like it did with him. It was fine if it didn't. Michael was still glad to have him around. They could talk about many other things. They had all the time in the world.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, this took a while and it got a little long, but here it is - the final chapter. I hope y'all will like it as much as I did writing it <3

Jon felt cold wind on his face as Michael opened the doors. It felt surreal, leaving the indoors after so long. For some reason it took him by surprise how vibrantly green the grass and the forest were, and how happy it made him to see them. He never thought he'd miss them so much.

The courtyard was larger and fuller of life than he remembered when he first arrived. There were deciduous trees arranged in rows of four, with stone pathways between them. There were birches and oaks and poplars and alders and willows, unattended to in decades, growing whichever direction they felt like, some overtaken by ivy and dried up but still standing, accumulating moss and birds' nests and ivy garlands. Those still alive were full of buds and baby leaves, light, vibrant green and clustered together. Jon felt better just by looking at them. The pathways, once white and grey, were covered with grass and wild plants growing between the stones, now caked in mud and fallen leaves.

The ground was full of tall plants and shrubbery, the original flowers mingled with the wild ones. Peony bushes grew out of proportion, the new bulbs struggling to peek at the sun through the mass of leaves. Lilies and irises were strangled by bindweed and morning glory. Dandelions and cornflowers surrounded and filled the gaps between the petunias and primroses. The two of them had to be careful where they stepped as they made their way through the miniature forest. Michael was like an excited little child, pulling Jon after him by the hand, with no care for what he was putting their shoes and trousers through. Jon looked up at the pines surrounding the courtyard, beyond the walls. He had to crane his neck to do so. They were a darker, richer green, and some trees were as tall as the castle. They looked so tightly packed together it would have been hard to leave and venture out into the woods.

Michael stomped down some thorny branches and made a path for the two of them to get to a gigantic weeping willow. It's crown, broad and falling all the way around like a bed canopy, was deep dark green with streaks of yellow, and so thick that inside was as dark as if it were a closed closet. At some point in time another tree, a smaller one in the prime of it's life, was knocked over, most likely in a storm, and it fell against the willow, and remained propped on one of the bigger branches. The poor young tree dried, as too little roots were still in the ground to nurture it, and the willow, where the young tree fell and got stuck, didn't grow threads of leaves anymore, so the canopy had an entrance. 

Jon followed Michael inside the willow and sat next to him at the base of the tree, feeling twigs and branches, fallen threads, pebbles, and damp soft moss under his hands. Light managed to filter through some of the leaves of the canopy, like bullet holes through a barrel, making it look from the inside like a fantastic night sky. The trunk was outlined by the dim light with a gold, stronger in some places, faded in others, as if it were paint and a rag was rubbed here and there before it got to dry. In the light coming from the entrance, a lot stronger, but not going very far, particles of dust were dancing through the air, falling down like snow. Jon's eyes got used to the darkness and he could see more details. He could see the tree trunk splitting in two, going up, one of the two splitting as well, all three sprouting out the threads, every individual thread contoured by the golden light outside, the threads cascading down to the floor, touching the scarce grass and the chance-less tiny flowers. The dark brown floor under the canopy was filled with memories of times when the willow was young too, before it grew up and dominated all around it. There were twigs from bushes, small branches, various leaves from various species of trees, dried and protected from the rain and from the wildlife, small mushrooms like dots, and lots and lots of bumps in the ground, probably all of the above covered in moss or dirt. 

“This is one of my favourite places.” Michael told Jon. He spoke quietly, as if not to disturb the silence. Jon didn't reply and glanced down at their hands. Michael was still holding onto his, between them on the ground. Jon fought a smile and took to looking away and continuing to analyze the scene.

A strangely calm feeling came from sitting inside the canopy. All noise from the outside was blocked by the threads of leaves. The wind would filter and find it's way through, brushing against the leaves and producing sounds that lulled one to sleep. Somewhere in the trees in nearby, in the ones from the garden or the ones of the woods, or why not right atop of this one, birds would sing to each-other. Crickets skipped about, under the curtains and played their violins quietly, as if worried of waking someone up. Strong breezes would push the curtains, bringing colder air.

Jon fought the urge to lie down and nap. He and Michael sat together under the canopy, listening to the wind and the birds in the forest. It was all so calm and quiet and pleasant to the eyes and ears and mind. Michael was leaning hard against Jon's shoulder – Jon wondered again if he was asleep.

He agreed with what Michael had told him, the courtyard was very pretty. He felt at peace, as he did in his room. Jon hoped he would keep feeling better so they could keep going outside to this. Maybe it _would_ all get better. They had everything they needed in their castle and their courtyard. Jon thought about his wish to find a way out of the castle and to escape. He was outside, now. Did he really want to leave?

Jon glanced at the castle, at its stone walls and the windows, hiding the twisting and infinite hallways that had been keeping them trapped for who knows how long. Jon tried to figure out for how long he had been there. In his youth when he dealt with depressive episodes, it would take nearly a year to return to “normal”, and he had trouble remembering the time that had passed, as he did now. It didn't feel like a year passed, but nor less than a year, or more. Jon did not trust the castle one bit. Could an entire building be a monster? It wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility. He looked down at Michael, who was sitting with his eyes closed, still holding onto his hand. Jon couldn't help smiling. He knew Michael was tethered to the castle. He also knew it was Gertrude's fault, somehow. He had learnt enough about her to safely guess she was capable of such things. Jon didn't want to leave Michael by himself again, but Jon was wary about how the castle would affect him too over time. Jon's beard and hair stopped growing and he felt less and less hungry. If he felt hungry and he talked with Michael or read a strange book before eating, he would not longer feel hungry anymore. Was this the castle's doing or his own? Jon found himself wishing it was the castle's.

He closed his eyes tight and took a deep breath. He looked down at Michael, at his blond curls, his hairline and his forehead and eyebrows. He could see his light eyelashes moving. His eyes were open and he was looking out at the garden through the entrance in the canopy. The corners of his mouth were turned slightly upward, in a content little smile.

Jon looked at him for a long moment. Without thinking he leaned down and kissed Michael's forehead. When he realised what he did his breath stopped in his throat. Michael looked up at him and saw Jon's eyes opened wide in shock. Jon opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't think of anything, letting out only a few strangled sounds as his mind raced for a response. Michael smiled up at him, eyes bright and lively, and he leaned up to plant a kiss on Jon's cheek. Jon froze in place completely while Michael laughed and ran off, too giddy to stay still.

Jon walked out of the willow's canopy, face still very much red. God damn it, it was just a kiss on the cheek! He could hear Michael somewhere behind the willow. Jon smiled and looked around the jungle that was the courtyard.

Not too far away was a fountain, covered in vines and moss, and Jon walked up to it. Grass, clovers and dandelions grew in the basin and spilled over. Whatever the statue used to be, it was now a headless and armless, or maybe wingless, eroded stone pillar covered by weeds. Jon could hear Michael threading through the shrubbery towards him and he made to turn to face him, when he saw something on the corner of the castle walls. It looked as though the brick wall was crumbling.

He walked around the fountain and pushed his way through the foliage. Around the corner was what looked like a caved in cellar door. It was two wooden doors on a leaning stone slab on the ground, except the door were rotten and broken under the weight of bricks. They filled the staircase leading down and presumably what was below, and on top of that was dirt and moss, solidifying everything in place. The wall from where the bricks cascaded was unaffected, and behind from where the bricks fell and a room should have been visible was another wall of bricks and stone. It looked like the dent left in skin by a scab being picked away.

Jon's curiosity was more than peaked. Did it lead into the basement he saw in the dreams? Has it always been there? Did the castle or Michael or both do it to stop Jon from snooping?

Jon gasped when he felt Michael wrap his arms around him from behind.

“What are you doing?” He asked, placing his chin on Jon's shoulder.

“Oh, uh, nothing!” Jon said. “What is this?” He asked, looking towards the rubble.

“That?” Michael asked back.

“Yes.” Jon said.

“I don't know.” Michael shrugged. “It has been there since I arrived.”

“Does it lead to wine cellar or something like that?”

“Who knows.”

Jon sighed a little, trying not to feel too exasperated.

Michael smiled and let him go, taking hold of his hand again. “I want to show you more of the garden!” He said.

In the following days, when he wasn't outside, Jon tried to look for answers in the library. The act felt nostalgic, in a way. He genuinely enjoyed to research, to look for things, to fish for certain information in books and documents. It was relaxing, even, for him. He wouldn't notice hunger or fatigue for disconcerting amounts of time. Spending hours searching and doing the same thing over and over wasn't so daunting to Jon as it was to his former classmates and colleagues. In part, that was why he decided to pursue the studies he did. Jon lost count of the times he derailed from a subject because he found a mildly interesting detail and proceeded to spend hours looking into that. Jon was... too damn curious for his own good.

The scars on Jon's face itched. He scratched them hard, digging his nails in his cheek, and resumed pulling books off the shelves, skimming through the pages, putting them back and grabbing another one.

The books in the castle's library were fiction: epic, lyric and dramatic of all shapes and forms and topics and genres, but nothing real or factual. Some were inspired by reality, because originality can only go so far, but they were far from accurate accounts, historical or present-day. Writers took many liberties in the realm of fiction. Many volumes were of fairy tales and folklore, from lands so far away Jon was surprised to find them there. They felt familiar as he read them, probably because they were. Every culture seemed to have the same ideas for heroes, monsters and challenges, despite being on opposite sides of the world. Humans all think alike when it comes to stories. Jon actually found, in the castle's library, a book with all the different versions of Prince Charming. While all that was great and dandy, he still couldn't find anything about the castle. The closest he got to was Villeneuve's “Beauty and the Beast”, where the Beast demands for Beauty to come to his castle after her father tried to pluck his most precious rose as a gift for his daughter, leading to Beauty breaking the Beast's curse and marrying him. The next fairy tale Jon found and read in this vein was Bluebeard, which soured his good mood.

Jon resigned to reading the fairy tales for pleasure when he got frustrated with the castle's secrets. Lots of them featured such dramatic plot-lines of secrecy and vengeance, and lots and lots of curses, artefacts and poisons. Jon wondered where they took inspiration from. Some he could guess himself. Some were surprising to think would be used in a way that helped the Prince Charming or third youngest son achieve their quests, they seemed like the methods of the villains rather than the heroes. Not all of them killed, but put to sleep, or shapeshifted, and in one instance made the victim forget. Putting an enemy to sleep and sneaking around them was favoured in the stories intended for children rather than straight-up killing them. It added to the suspense too.

…

Could Jon make Michael fall sleep? Put him to sleep and then search the castle?

Jon thought it over for hours, staying up at night. How would he even do it? How are people put to sleep in real life? Could he wait for Michael to fall asleep in his bed and then sneak out. That would have meant searching the castle at night. He was... not very keen on that.

And if he tried how would he explain it? The bathroom was en-suite. A late night snack? Not feeling like sleeping so going to the library? It's stupid. This is a stupid plan.

“Good morning, Jon!” Michael said one morning, holding two cups of tea, one for Jon and one for himself.

Tea!!!

Jon could spike Michael's tea! With... something!

Jon was seriously thinking of drugging Michael. This is so wrong.

Would it even work on Michael? Would anything work on Michael? And where would Jon even get something that would work for humans in general?

The kitchen? The courtyard?

Shit, think, what plants make you sleepy? It's on the tip of Jon's tongue...

Valerian!

...

What does Valerian look like?

Goodness gracious, this is such a _stupid_ plan! Why is Jon even considering it? Even if, _somehow_ , it did work, he couldn't just run around the castle willy-nilly until he found the plain portière leading to the basement! He'd get lost again! And he'd have to wait for Michael to wake up to find him! And then he'd have to explain what the hell he did!

Michael did explain to him how to navigate to corridors... That he must stay calm...

“Your skin looks a little better.” Michael told him, sitting next to him on the bed, poking at his cheek.

“Does it?” Jon asked, finding it hard to believe.

“When you are happy and at peace, your scars look better too. They aren't so pronounced.” Michael said, pushing a finger between Jon's eyebrows to stop him from furrowing them and laughing softly when Jon noticed he was furrowing. “When you were feeling unwell, they stood out. It looked like they were opening again. Did you not notice it?”

“I didn't really notice anything in those days.”

“How do you feel now?” Michael asked.

“Better,” Jon admitted, “much better.”

“Do you have dark thoughts often?”

“Not so much anymore.” That was because Jon's mind was too busy with something else.

“Good.” Michael smiled a little and kissed Jon on the cheek he had been touching. Jon instinctively averted his eyes, feeling his face warm up.

“Tell me if you feel bad again.” Michael said, softly but clearly a demand.

“I will.” Jon said, giving back a cheek kiss.

Gertrude Robinson was an esteemed scholar and researcher. Jon met her only once, shortly after being hired. It was quick and in passing, in one of the hallways of the building. She didn't give him any more attention than she would have given to any other random newbie that was probably going to quit in a few days. Jon couldn't recall what her voice sounded like and he was unsure of her appearance. He knew she was an old woman – she had been working for 50 years. She was always travelling and busy with anything other than actually working. Jon assumed that after being there for so long in an important position, no one dares question you, even if you're shit at your job. Jon was unsure what she was actually ever doing, but she always came back and no one complained, so she must have been doing something right. And Gertrude didn't seem like she was going to leave any time soon. She seemed to have no intention to retire, or die. Despite her old age, she was quicker and more lively than most “youth”, such as himself. She made the Archives her domain, her own castle. It felt like she would always be there.

When Gertrude went missing, it came as a shock to everyone. She was gone. It was as though the earth opened and swallowed her, leaving no trace behind. Some people joked that Elias Bouchard, their head of the Institute, finally got fed up with her and killed her. There was no body to prove it was a murder or any other crime, and the authorities eventually had no choice but to give up and simply declare Gertrude lost.

Elias wasted no time in replacing his Archivist and resuming work, and he chose Jonathan as Gertrude's replacement. Jon was completely taken aback. He was not going to refuse, he wasn't an idiot to let such an opportunity pass, but it was nonetheless a surprise. He was not trained to be an Archivist. Jon told Elias that, but Elias assured him it would all be quite fine. Jon was going to learn everything he needed to know as he went, and soon all would be set.

Jon found himself glaring at the wall as he lied in bed to sleep one evening later, thinking about it. His nose was wrinkled in anger and twitching as he ran the events through his mind for the millionth time, as helpless to change them as he was when they first took place. He was clutching the side of his pillow, digging holes in the casing with his nails and frustration. His scars ached and he itched to tear his skin apart, to get rid of the marked flesh, the constant reminder of all that transpired. If he could, he would get rid of his brain too, dig and tear and rip out all the memories, forget his shit-show of a life, start over with Michael, no dark thoughts and regrets haunting him and confining him to bed as if he were a convalescent, inviting for even more misery.

“Is there something the matter?” Michael asked, lifting the blanket to lie besides him.

“No, no, I'm fine.” Jon said, turning to lie on his back, relaxing his face and his voice.

Michael smiled as he cuddled next to Jon, pushing his head against the crook of his neck, pressing close to his body. Jon felt a kiss being sneaked on his cheek and he leaned into it, closing his eyes and humming in approval. Michael continued kissing his cheek and his jaw, mouthing softly down his neck.

“Michael...” Jon sighed, feeling himself blush and his heartbeat quicken.

Michael moved lower, to Jon's chest, where his nightshirt dipped and exposed it, and he kissed the middle of his sternum, where Jon's heart was racing underneath. Jon's face felt like it was going to crack from how hard it was burning.

“Please stop.” Jon said, moving away, higher up the bed.

Michael stopped and got off of him, lying on Jon's side, with his head on Jon's shoulder.

“I'm sorry, I-” Jon made to say.

“Oh, don't be.” Michael said.

“It's just... a lot...”

“A lot?” Michael giggled.

“Don't laugh!”

“It's fine. I'll only do what you like. Is kissing your face alright?”

“... Yes, it is.”

Michael smiled up at him and pecked his jawline.

“Good night, Michael.” Jon said, resting his head against his.

“Good night.”

The two of them fell quiet and basked in the darkness and silence of the room, with only the occasional sounds of the wind and the shuffling of the branches outside, muffled by the castle walls, and the warmth of the covers around them. Jon could feel Michael holding onto his arm and his face pressed against his shoulder. It probably looked funny. His breathing was slow and deep, and Jon tried to mimic it. Under the thick comforter it was divinely warm, but since the weather got better it would get too hot very fast. Michael moved away from him at some point, slow and careful not to bother him too much. Jon stood still, head lolled to the side, continuing to breathe like Michael, who dozed back to sleep.

Jon sat like that for almost two hours when he opened an eye and looked at Michael. Michael was resting on his back too, the blanket pulled off his legs, his arms on his torso and mouth agape. Except for the rise and fall of his chest, he was perfectly still and passed out.

Jon opened the other eye two and waited to get used to the darkness. He relocated the familiar objects of his bedroom and distinguished the darkened colours. The wallpaper was dancing and swimming away around them, and so were Michael's blond curls and features. His snoring sounded like a cat's purring, but it did not yield the same calming effect.

“Michael...” Jon whispered, so quietly he barely heard himself. Michael made no reaction.

Jon poked his hip through the blanket. No reaction.

Jon began slowly and cautiously sliding his body towards the edge of the bed. The bed creaked when he sat upright. He thought it would be best to slide off it to the floor and then tiptoe to the door. It was a long way, but so be it. That was his designated side of the bed, there's nothing that can be done about that. Jon was worried the feeling of movement would wake Michael up, but he didn't seem to notice yet.

Michael snored really loudly, snorting and chocking himself awake. He startled both of them, but Michael fell back almost instantly. Jon glared and cursed him out in his mind.

Jon was now able to place a foot on the floor. His hip and shoulder were on the edge of the mattress and threatening to slide down. This felt like boarding school all over again. He wished he could forget that part of his life as well.

Jon got his other foot on the floor. This was it. Jon moved his elbows beneath him and slowly pushed himself up. He was almost in a sitting position when the bed creaked harshly and Jon closed his eyes hard and mouthed “Fuck”, silently biting the word. He heard Michael stir and mumble indecipherable. It sounded something like “Jon?” followed by a slightly more clear “What's wrong?”

“I'm going to the bathroom.” Jon said. “Go back to sleep.”

Jon got up and made his way to the bathroom, and pretended to make his way to the toilet. He was so miffed he didn't know what to do with himself but grumble in the dark. He waited with his bare feet on the cold floor, flushed the empty toilet after deeming long enough had passed and pretended to wash his hands. He crawled back into bed, telling himself he'll try again after Michael fell back asleep. Jon lied back down, on the edge of the bed, when he felt Michael drag him towards him to the middle, Jon's back flush against his chest. Michael groaned and wrapped his arms tight around Jon's waist. Jon looked on into the distance, wide awake and defeated.

Everything was going so great! Michael was so happy! He could think so clearly, he looked so human! At times, while together with Jon, in his room or the courtyard or the library, he would even forget about the castle and everything that happened! It was like a dream, but in a good way!

He couldn't remember feeling so happy in his previous life. He had felt love before, but it never went so well. The circumstances weren't the best, of course, but he was far from complaining. He didn't realise how much he missed the company of other people, the feeling of skin on skin, how overwhelming it felt to feel it again. Jon let him be all over him, squeeze him, touch him, feel his heart in his chest and his life in his veins. He could stare for hours at the curves of his lips, of his collarbone, his knuckles. Jon most likely considered Michael weird, even for a monster, but he was nice about it. He tended to separate Michael and the castle and Michael felt that Jon felt pity for Michael for being stuck like this, but that was fine too. Michael often felt disconnected from the castle. Michael often felt disconnected from Michael, but that's another thing.

The two of them prepared food together one summer day - they guessed it was summer judging by the flowers growing outside. The flowers they picked were still fresh and lovely. Dying was arbitrary in their case.

Speaking of dying! Michael was quite certain by that point he was not going to die. He didn't need to eat. Nor did Jon. They cooked and ate as a way to fill time and spend it together. He was sure Jon was immortal in the same way. There were ways to check, but he didn't want to hurt him. He could ask, of course, but it begged the question whether Jon was aware of it. Even if he were, Jon didn't want to talk about it. He wanted to put everything behind. Michael could provide that. He would gladly help Jon forget and feel better, give himself as a home and refuge.

Jon had to do his part too, however. Michael could offer him all the love and care in the world, but if Jon was stubborn and refused it nothing would help him. Michael knew it wasn't easy, that it wouldn't happen overnight, but Jon had to contribute too to feeling better. Michael couldn't make him think and move and act for him, like a puppeteer. He started doing it, and Michael was so glad of it. He'd go in the library again to read, and go in the courtyard with him, and even start cooking his own food, even if Michael was more than fine doing it himself. Jon was dear to him, but... he was atrocious at cooking.

Jon was looking through the shelves and cabinets, familiarising himself with everything. There wasn't any exact explanation to why food was always in the cupboards. In a way, if the castle itself exists, and everything else outside it, why not this as well, you know? Michael explained to Jon what each tea box contained. He had had plenty of time to figure out over the years, They had mint, chamomile, green, black, dandelion, nettle, basil, chrysanthemum, peppermint, spearmint, raspberry leaf, angelica, lavender, valerian-

“Valerian?” Jon asked.

“Yes!” Michael said.

“Doesn't it make you fall asleep?” He asked.

“It does.” Michael replied. “I've been preparing it to you to help you rest.”

“Really?” Jon asked, fascinated.

“Only a little bit, though. It's very strong, this one.” The castle changed the food too, the taste and effects being either subdued or more potent. It was anyone's guess what it was going to be a certain day.

“Do you ever need to drink it?” Jon continued to ask.

“Not really. But I like the taste!”

Jon hummed, thoughtful, and put it back on the shelf.

Leaves and flowers filled the branches of the trees in the courtyard, while the trees of the forest remained green as always. The weather got warmer and warmer. Days gradually got longer and nights shorter. Michael told Jon, with wonder, that this didn't usually happen – seasons being how they were supposed to be. The castle didn't usually care for facts. Michael said it must be because Jon was now a resident. Jon knew it was meant in a good way, but he nonetheless felt cold from anxiety. It didn't help that Jon also felt like shit because of the shift in weather, both physically and mentally. It felt hotter inside the castle, the blanket was to be kicked away to the foot of the bed.

Jon had a bit of trouble falling asleep again. Michael would stir in his sleep and wake up momentarily to see Jon awake, looking at the walls or at him, waiting for sleep to get him as well. It was disconcerting, sometimes. Michael could see the whites of Jon's eyes in the darkness, contrasting with the pitch-black irises and pupils. It looked like Jon's pupils took over the irises entirely. He would watch Michael sleep with half-lidded eyes, brow and neck tendons shiny from sweat. Until Michael's mind remembered and realised who was next to him, he got scared at first of the insistent eyes. When he remembered it was just Jon, he immediately calmed down and dozed off, while Jon continued watching him quietly. Jon watched the shapes his hair would form, the shape of his parted lips, the shirt slipping off his shoulder.

While the warmth kept Jon awake, it made Michael drowsy. Jon reached to pull a curl off Michael's cheek, that threatened to get in his mouth. He felt oddly captivated by the way his upper lip was slightly pulled along by the hair. Jon found himself sitting closer and analysing Michael's features. He grazed the tip of his fingernail along his cupid's bow, watching Michael scrunch his eyebrows and inhale deeper. The summer heat must have taken shame away along with the ability to rest. Jon traced shapes on Michael's cheek, hovering above the peach-fuzz. Michael's eyelashes moved, but he didn't wake up. Jon thought he might be able to explore the castle in those moments. He was a little wary about doing it in the dark. It would add to the confusion, which would make the corridors even harder to navigate than they already were. He also didn't want to stop looking at Michael sleeping peacefully besides him. Jon traced along Michael's nose, around his nostril, and Michael scrunched his entire face. It was so cute. He leaned down to kiss him on the bare shoulder.

Michael's eyes opened slightly, then flew open when he met Jon's eyes. Jon, realising how close he was sitting, also flinched away, blinking in surprise.

“Sorry...!” Jon stammered.

“It's alright...” Michael squeaked.

Other than scenes like this, life in the castle went smoothly and calmly. Jon took to cooking and preparing their teas. He'd serve them to Michael with a gentle smile and a kiss on the cheek or on the temple. Everything was great, indeed. All was good in their little world...

It worked! It worked! Michael fell asleep!

Jon ran out of their room and down the corridor to the staircase. He stopped in his tracks to calm his excited heart. He couldn't believe it actually worked. His plans never work! He took a deep breath and made his way out of the staircase to an unknown corridor and he went straight down it. He looked through his mind for the corridors he saw the time he got lost – perhaps he could use those to reach the hexagon, where the blank curtain was in the dream.

The corridor he found had no embellishments on the walls and the carpet too was plain. Jon thought it was odd, until he turned the corner and saw how the vines of the wallpaper was swimming and curling in on each-other like schools of fish. He had never seen them so active before. The vines on the wallpaper in his room were smaller and subtler. Jon felt dizzy looking at the ones in the hallway and he hurried past them. Some of them followed him for a few steps the way curious animals would, before resuming whatever they were doing.

The corridor parted in two other ones, to the left and to the right. Jon looked through both of them and on the one to the left he saw that there were no windows or doors, and he chose that one. He recalled he should come across three doors and a dead end, and there they were. Jon smiled victorious and turned around, going back it until he found a staircase with cream walls and olive carpets. Yes! He was on the fifth floor instead of the third floor, but he ignored it and went to the base of it, where there was a portière depicting Aeneas, as he expected. He slid past it expecting to see another staircase, but instead he came across another corridor. Shit. No, it was fine. He had a very good start.

This corridor was plain yellow and with a dark carpet and it stretched far into the distance. Every few meters was a window of a door, plain and light wood. Vines swam and twisted around them without any care for his presence. The windows depicted the courtyard from different angles that shouldn't have been possible, but Jon didn't bother looking down them. He would open some of the doors to see if the corridor they led to was familiar or not. His heart stood in place when he saw the portière to his bathroom. Was Michael awake? Was he trying to get him to return. Jon walked past it, careful not to make noise and close to the opposing wall, avoiding it like it was a fire.

He found a hallway that had windows on either side of it. He found it vaguely familiar but he didn't know where it would lead. The main corridor was taking too long to explore. Michael could wake up any time. The sun coming through the windows warmed him up and blinded him momentarily, but he kept walking. He was going to come across something new eventually, the corridors stretched forever, but they crossed each-other constantly. Michael told him that he had been here for years, for decades for all he knew. Even a place as bizarre and senseless as the castle _had_ to have some rules it operated by, some sort of system. The anomaly was contained to the castle walls - the gardens were fine. The rooms Jon knew stood where he knew them. If Jon somehow learned every single corridor and path in the castle, he might be able to tame it, make it normal again. He knew there was something behind the rose portière, in the basement, behind the plain one in the hexagonal corridor, _it had to be somewhere eventually_. He already found a portion of the castle he knew, he just had to get back on track. The castle must have done it to scare him, to keep him away from the basement like Michael did. They were trying to keep him in the dark, weren't they? He wasn't certain if Michael was genuinely ignorant or just trying to protect him, but keeping secrets wasn't helping as much as Michael seemed to think it might. It only made Jon want to know more. He couldn't sleep without knowing, he couldn't relax, he had to know what was in the basement, he _needed_ to know.

Jon's face and neck itched so badly, it felt like it was bubbling. He stopped in his tracks with a gasp. He was in the hexagon. Jon spun around, looking hastily at the doors. The only one that wasn't a wooden door was a yellow curtain, plain life the walls around it. The swirling vines avoided it like it was fire. Jon's throat felt tight, air would not go through, and his back felt ice cold. He felt like he was in the panopticon all over again. Jon shook his head violently and forced himself to go forward.

The staircase behind the portière went straight down and the end was enveloped in darkness. The steps were less polished and uncovered, revealing old wooden that creaked under his steps. The lines in the bark were swimming too and moved out of the way of his feet from before he stepped on them, as soon as his shadow got near them. The walls were brick and stone, not covered by wallpaper or paint. Jon glanced at the ceiling and saw ancient cobwebs, the spiders residing in them long dead and mummified by their own homes and dust. None cared to come and replace their deceased friends. It was really just Jon and Michael in the castle.

The cellar door came into view. It was tall and rounded at the top, like an old medieval one. The wood was old, very old, rotting away and peeling. Jon though that if the door wouldn't open, he could pick the door and it would break away like paper. It opened, the door handle raining rust and dust on the floor and Jon's foot.

The basement was as he remembered it in the dream, a wide, open space with many corridors leading in all directions, and with low ceilings he could reach his arm to touch. Every few meters there were wooden support pillars, and Jon found them redundant. The walls were misaligned bricks, rough stones or straight-up the ground that had been dug.It was dark, but Jon could see, just as he did in his room at night. He made to walk past the threshold, when a low, deep rumble filled his ears and shook the ground he stood on. It stopped after a moment and the bricks on the ceiling were even less aligned. Jon clutched his heart and waited, his breath finding it even harder to enter his lungs. He recalled that he thought in his dreams, that it was the castle shifting, and it seemed to be that, God, why is he so on edge, suddenly?! He had done this before, and before the castle too – the place looked just like the tunnels below the institute. This thought made Jon shiver from his core. He figuratively crushed it in his fist and walked into the basement. Come on, he was almost there. Find the rose curtain, see what's behind, return and stay with Michael until he calms down, then stay with him for good, not worrying about anything else anymore. Come one, just do it, it will be like ripping a band aid.

He wasn't sure which corridor to pick. In the dream he did it randomly. He assumed the same logic would work as it did above ground, but then it would take a very long time again. He picked one eventually and walked through. They were straight and narrow, and deserted, only stone and darkness. It would branch to the left or right or both ways and it didn't seem to matter which way Jon chose, the stretched and cut through corridors he hadn't chose. Jon looked at the stones of the walls, wondering if they would form spiralling shapes, but they didn't. For all the world it looked normal, which did not help ease his nerves. Calm down, damn it, the castle will fuck up the corridors if you're not, Jon thought, as if it would work so easily.

Jon felt he was getting close. Not just felt, he knew he was. His scars stopped their incessant itching. He could see through the darkness as if it were a bright day. The corridor stopped branching in different ways, there was one way ahead. His heart was pounding so hard, shaking his ribcage, and his face felt flushed. A sense of terrible impending doom overcame him, but he stubbornly pushed forward.

The portière with a rose came into view at the far away end of the corridor. Jon quickened his pace to meet it. It was as he remembered it: old, flayed, discoloured, with a simple but beautiful painting of roses. Jon noticed that the falling leaves and petals were following the shapes of the cuts, the way the swirl he hurt did when he tore the wallpaper in his room. The largest and most elaborate rose in the middle was a deep dark crimson, like an exposed organ, covered in fresh blood, freshly ripped out of a chest or skull or torso. The roses and petals surrounding it were a filthy brown, dry and long dead. Jon walked through one of the gaps in the curtain, turning his body to the side to fit without touching it too much, unconsciously holding his breath.

The room he saw was anticlimactic at a first, unknowing glance. In Jon's mind rose the words “prison cell”, though it was very large and wide for one. But the ceiling was still low. Across the room from the entrance he saw where the cellar door from the courtyard led. The wooden stairs were collapsed under a pile of rubble and bricks. Through a couple of tiny, tiny gaps weak rays of sunlight came in, illuminating the dust flying around and the spiral engraving on the ground, carved deep into the earth and stone. Jon's eyes tried to follow it for a moment before blinking rapidly to regain focus. In the middle, where the spiral supposedly ended, was a wooden frame, standing by itself at the centre of the room. Jon stepped closer in an attempt to make sense of it. It was the only thing in the room, the only clue. He dared not to touch it, as that one would certainly crumble to dust. The wood charred black and painfully thin, splitting and threatening to crack or fall over any moment. Jon was careful not to breathe too hard against it.

He looked at the ground again, trying not to let his eyes follow the spiral again, and that was when he saw it. Whatever the frame held, a door or a curtain, it was reduced to a pile of ash. This was a failed ritual. Jon had a pretty good idea who did it. But how was Michael involved in all of this? Jon ran through his mind what Michael had told him: he used to work for Gertrude, he used to work for the Institute too. He and she found the castle and it was empty when they did. Gertrude decided they would split up to make sense of what was going on and that was the last time Michael saw her, and since then he had been bound to the castle. Gertrude bound Michael to the castle. She forced a human being onto a supernatural being, ruining both.

Jon felt like he was going to vomit. He got to his feet so fast he wobbled to regain balance, which made his feel sicker. He had to get out of the basement, he felt faint. He brought a hand to his mouth in an attempt to hold back the retching, but the sight of it made all blood drain from his face. His scars from Jane's worms and Jude's flames were gone, and in their place were eyes. Jon screamed and tears filled all of his eyes.

He couldn't recall when he ran out of the ritual room or how he managed to make his way back to the main area of the basement. Maybe the castle took pity on him, or it grew scared of an old enemy. He heard somewhere in the background of his shrieks and sobs the sound of a the cellar door flying open, and a moment later Michael's arms around him. He was asking Jon questions, but Jon was in no condition to answer.

He was somehow brought back to his room. Michael must have cut the walk short. The next thing Jon knew, he was still crying, but while lying down on the bed, his hands over his face and Michael's hands over his own. His own hiccups were choking him, but they would not stop. His heart was pounding and everything hurt, he couldn't think, it was the panopticon all over again, the panopticon, the panopticon too, him too, Elias too, Martin, everyone too too too

Jon's body eventually exhausted itself and ran out of tears. He lied limp next to Michael, his head against his chest, lips parted and dark eyes (only two of them) staring blankly ahead. His head hurt. There were still some tears in his eyelashes and spilling over on his cheeks, but no new ones. He was still shaking as though overcome by chills, but it was almost over. Jon's mind too was too tired to race anymore. In a way it was good – he was too tired to even panic.

Michael carefully moved Jon so he lied next to him, higher up on the pillows. He wiped his face and took the opportunity to caress it.

“Michael...?” Jon rasped, weakly.

“I am here.” Michael said, softly and smiling. “It's alright.”

“It's not...” Jon furrowed his brows.

“You need to rest, Jon, you'll get sick again. We'll talk about everything afterwards. I should have told you everything from the start, even if I wasn't sure myself what had happened. I'm still not, I could never figure it out. I thought we may be able to piece it together, but I didn't want to upset you even more. I decided to wait, but I should have done it. This is my fault.” Michael sighed. “What it's done it's done. Let's rest together, okay? You don't have to sleep, just lie down. We'll talk or read or just lie down. It will be alright, Jon.”

“It's not alright!” Jon shouted, grabbing Michael by the sides of his head. “None of this is alright! Stop saying it is! It isn't! You're a monster! _I_ 'm a monster!”

Jon panted, staring Michael in the eyes, which were opened wide in surprise. The exertion made new tears spill out. Michael brought a hand to brush the away. Jon deflated and hiccuped again, lying his head on Michael's chest, hands sliding to his shoulder. Michael wrapped his arms around him as well as he could.

“Can I ask you something, Jon?” Michael said, stroking his back.

“What?” He asked back, voice strained.

“What were you doing in the forest the night you arrived? How did you get here? Please tell me.”

“I was running away...”

“Why? What happened?”

“Everybody was gone...”

“Who was gone?”

“Martin, Tim, Daisy... Sasha...”

Michael frowned. “What happened?”

“They were _gone_... It's all my fault...”

“It wasn't, Jon. I'm sure it wasn't.”

“It was... I am a fool, an idiot... Elias played me like a fiddle, he made me hurt everyone, and I had no idea, none...”

“Elias...” Michael furrowed his brows. “Elias Bouchard?”

“Yes...”

“You worked at the Institute! Did you meet Gertrude?”

“I-I did, but didn't know her... She died a few years later...”

Michael stood quiet for a moment. He wanted to ask when did Gertrude die, _how_ she died, but that was not what mattered at the moment.

“Can I ask what Elias made you do? You don't have to answer if-”

“It... it was a ritual, I think... The panopticon... everyone, one for each... B-But it went wrong... Everyone was screaming... Everyone was _wrong_... And I ran away...”

“All the way here? You must have been running for a while.”

“I didn't know where to go...”

“You found a good place, in the end.” Michael rested his head against the top of Jon's. “It's over now, Jon. You have been here for quite some time. Your scars are closed. And you said it yourself, it was because of Elias, of his scheming.”

“Y-Yes, but...”

“I think it's best you remain here. You'll be safe and the castle can't harm you as much as it could. You were quite happy in the past days, weren't you?”

“I can't...”

“Can't stay?”

“Can't be happy...”

“Why not?”

“Everyone... I did everything and I just... ran away...”

“What else were you supposed to do?”

“I wasn't hurt like them...”

“You _weren't_? Jon, have you seen your scars?”

“They can't ever be happy... I took it away...”

“You said it was Elias' doing, you know that too.”

“But... but...”

Jon's cracked as another cascade spilled from his eyes. He clutched to Michael's torso and spilled his heart out again. Michael held him fast and kissed his hair, feeling tears sting his own eyes. His heart hurt listening to Jon. He couldn't begin to imagine how Jon felt. The sole survivor. A puppet left to deal with the remains of its strings and theatre.

“It _will_ be alright, Jon.” Michael said, furrowing his brows. “I am here because of Gertrude and you are here because of Elias. Both of them are dead and both of us are alive. I bet they expected the opposite. Perhaps it would have been better that way. But here we are. There's not much else for us to do but to keep living, I suppose.”

“I can't... I can't...” Jon sobbed.

“Why not?” Michael wrinkled his nose. “We deserve it, after all that bullshit.”

“The others did too...”

Michael face softened. He kissed Jon's hair and waited for his to tire himself out again. When he did, Michael slid both of them down the bed, so his head was on the pillows and Jon's was on his chest.

“I don't know what to do...” Jon said, quietly.

“Me neither.” Michael said. “I noticed I've been feeling better since you arrived. I'll try to do the same to you.” Michael paused, then laughed a little. “Or maybe you'll come to forget everything too. That's also a solution too.”

“I don't want to forget.” Jon said.

“Even if it hurts you so much?”

“I don't want to forget everyone.”

“Not even Elias?”

“... Elias can go.”

Michael laughed, rocking Jon slightly. They stood in silence, aside from Jon's sniffling and the trees moving in the wind outside. Jon's heart and mind slowed down as he stood still, feeling Michael's hands holding him and his heart under his ear. Jon's head was pounding and his face hurt, but the fatigue slowly let him be. It was as though nothing happened. He furrowed his brows at that. It was always annoying, but he supposed that was the way it was, in nature as a whole. Everything was calm again a big storm. It didn't feel right. Could he be calm and happy after everything that happened? Did he have the right to it?

Jon looked up at Michael. He was looking at the window, lost in thought. Jon found himself staring at the curves of his mouth again. He looked at Michael's mouth for a long moment, before pushing himself up. Michael turned his head back to him, but before he could ask or say anything, Jon's lips carefully pressed against his. It was fast, just a quick, shy peck. Jon's face was red and his eyes were shiny. He was too embarrassed to meet Michael's and he shakily lied back on his chest. Michael didn't say anything, just smiled, face red too, and his stroked Jon's blushing cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading! I'm really proud of this fic, I think this is my favourite fanfic I ever wrote, and since you got all the way here, I hope you liked it! 💕 Love ya :*


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